


Under Your Scars

by Maleyah (Katherine_Kat)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (tiny spoiler) Alpha Dean Winchester, Affection, Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bonding, Cas has a mild Alpha kink, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dreamwalker Cas, Dreamwalking, F/F, F/M, Fallen Angels, Fictional city setting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Glacial Slow Burn, Happy Ending, Imprinting (light), Intimacy, M/M, Magical Realism, Mal wrote a thing, Mating Bites, Mild crack (in dreams), Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Null Dean Winchester, Omega Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Smut, Societal secondary gender discrimination, Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers, That tag should exist, There is an owl, True Forms, True Mates, Two Person Love Triangle, awkward boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 77,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine_Kat/pseuds/Maleyah
Summary: “Just… Don’t be so blatant about anyone’s proclivities again, will you? Unless they’re your own.”Everyone present, including the stripper, considered it a cute joke. A playful deviancy, because that’s what Alphas are in some circles. A dirty joke. A whispered desire. Something to indulge in but avoid in real life, unless under pain-stakingly controlled circumstances.“So serious,” Gabriel sighs. “It’s not like I’ll be able to order you a stripper again any time soon. Try to cheer up a bit.”Castiel obliges, but can tell it’s more of a grimace than anything else. It’s rare for him to show nerves outwardly, but they’re starting to bleed through. Easy enough for Gabe to pick up on, but then that’s exactly why he’s been needling him.“We kinda know this guy, right? Dean wasn’t a dick. Not when we were kids.”“Which was a long time ago,” Castiel says. “But mother approves of the marriage, so everything will work out perfectly.”Weekly updates on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Current amount of chapters is estimate, but should be thereabouts. Be advised on that 'slow burn'. It is not a joke.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Anna Milton, Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Comments: 602
Kudos: 310
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020





	1. Do we make sense?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xHaruka17x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHaruka17x/gifts).



> Welcome to my Fic Facer$ 2020 charity story, written for [Haruka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHaruka17x/profile). This thing grew well beyond the initial scope, so we're gonna be in this for a while! Thank you for bidding on me! I didn't expect anyone to ^^ since I am a baby creator within the fandom. Much appreciation and I hope their story pleases you. (I just realised, THIS is why I'm nervous!)
> 
> 1) Alpha and beta-read by [Tanstaafl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TANSTAAFL/profile) and [Kindathewholepoint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindathewholepoint/profile), who are both absolute saints. Tanstaafl's been my blessed alpha-reading partner throughout all this so far, which was new for both of us. Intense, but rewarding. Thank you both!
> 
> 2) I've gotten quite far in with writing, but due to some personal circumstances and the fact that the scope of this story grew much bigger than anticipated, I am still in the process of writing it. The mods and bidder are aware, as we communicated about this. I know where we're going, got all the scenes outlined (chapters to still be divvied up and alternated correctly, hence no number there), so bear with me, Tanstaafl, Kindathewholepoint and the cast, if you will. 
> 
> I promise we will deliver you to the end. How apt.
> 
> 3) Title is from Godsmack's song. Chapter titles will vary and stem from different songs, as per usual. Keep a lookout in the notes.
> 
> 4) Tags may make it seem heavier than it is! It will take our idiots some time to get their shit together and they WANT to, but there are some aspect to their society and families that mess with them for a while. **Know that as usual, you are in the hands of a fluffy soul and their ending is a happy one.** With season 15 around the bend, how can it not be for the ones whose canvas we get to paint?
> 
> Did I ramble? I may have rambled.
> 
> My dreamwalkers await beyond the material plane. Leave us some love in the comments and/or kudos, should you feel so inclined. Happy to have you here!  
> Be good to yourself in the days and weeks ahead.  
> Love,  
> Mal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damnit, Cassie, you’re beyond calm, even for you. Don’t tell me you’re still angry about your stag night?”

“Damnit, Cassie, you’re beyond calm, even for you. Don’t tell me you’re still angry about your stag night?”

Castiel slides his hands over the lapels, plucking off lint, not meeting his brother’s eyes. Instead the intricate design of the plushy carpet they’re standing on has him following the endless loops and swirls, failing to find a pattern. “A fair bit of that night has become a haze, truth be told.”

Gabriel laughs, while he reaches over and adjusts Castiel’s tie. “Yeah, I underestimated that mead.”

“It wasn’t the mead,” he says. “The hypocras did my head in. Stuff goes down like lemonade…”

“So you’re not pissed off we got you that dancer?”

Rolling his eyes, he finally looks at Gabriel. His older brother is prone to impulsive decisions and arranging that private dance had definitely been one of them.

“I’m not angry about the dancer,” he sighs. “I just wish you hadn’t given him _those_ directions.”

“Aww, come on, you’re telling me you didn’t like him going Alpha Lite on you? Not even a little bit? I thought I saw...”

 _Not the point_. 

Glaring hard enough to cut off that sentence, Castiel grumbles, flicking Gabriel’s ear, and tugs at the stick of the lollipop that is bulging up his brother’s cheek. “Mom’s gonna kill you if she sees you walk into the church like that.”

“She’ll live.” He tongues the sweet from one side of his mouth to the other, while he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Come on. I left you in peace about it, but before you tie the knot, I’d like to know if you at least got some of your proclivities sated!”

“Fuck off, Gabe,” he says on a smile. “The fact that you know of them is bad enough. I don’t need to confirm or deny whether your little investment got me off or not.”

“One can only hope. I’m actually concerned, Shorty.”

“About what exactly, _Shorter_?”

Gabriel squints at him, unimpressed with the nickname he’s been dragging along ever since Castiel grew taller than him. “The scandal you’ll cause if you leave your husband-to-be standing at the altar. Or, worse, show up, looking all handsome like this, only to turn tail and run.”

“Is this you or mother speaking?”

“Her. She never specified how subtle I had to be, so I consider my dutiful son business done. I, for one, would be highly amused if you pissed off the hunters by bailing on their eldest.”

“Dutiful son, my ass,” Castiel snorts. “I have no intention of running and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act as her mouthpiece.”

Gabriel really ought to know better. Castiel didn’t spend his entire childhood reading fairy tales, myths and legends of love to ruin his own wedding, even _if_ he’s scared witless Dean might not be anything like he dreamt. Or the vague memories he’s held dear. Some tiny part of his brain, the prudent portion he blames his mother for, knows Dean can’t be, because the beautiful love stories his grandmother used to read him aren’t real. They’re fantasies, at best. Sins, at worst, when they shamelessly dip into secondary gender kinks, and something he could suffer for greatly if anyone besides Gabriel had any idea.

“Just… Don’t be so blatant about anyone’s _proclivities_ again, will you? Unless they’re your own.”

Everyone present, including the stripper, considered it a cute joke. A playful deviancy, because that’s what Alphas are in some circles. A dirty joke. A whispered desire. Something to indulge in but avoid in real life, unless under painstakingly controlled circumstances.

“So serious,” Gabriel sighs. “It’s not like I’ll be able to order you a stripper again any time soon. Try to cheer up a bit.”

Castiel obliges, but can tell it’s more of a grimace than anything else. It’s rare for him to show nerves outwardly, but they’re starting to bleed through. Easy enough for Gabe to pick up on, but then that’s exactly why he’s been needling him.

“We kinda know this guy, right? Dean wasn’t a dick. Not when we were kids.”

“Which was a long time ago,” Castiel says. “But mother approves of the marriage, so everything will work out perfectly.”

“ _Domestically_ would be a good start. It’s a beautiful day for it.”

“Your optimism is grating sometimes.”

“I know,” Gabe grins. “I can’t help it. Because I’m not sure what else to give you in the face of you being married off to a Winchester.”

Theirs is to be a marriage of convenience. A plottwist he has their childhood to thank for, when their parents were endeared by how well they got along. That, at least, is the story they like to tell to outsiders. Truth of the matter is that the Winchesters are supernatural hunters and the Novaks, as fallen angels with a penchant for meddling in too many affairs for their own good, would prefer to keep all family members off the hit list. Except the inconvenient ones. Since he keeps himself as far removed as possible from his family's politics, he has no clue what the Winchesters are getting out of it, though the Novaks possess enough abilities and connections to make it worth their while.

The business transaction layer to this moment suddenly makes him feel cheap.

There had only been one true condition. If unfulfilled it would have been the proverbial penny on the tracks to derail this train. Neither of them could present as an Alpha along the way. Seeing as they didn’t, it landed Castiel right here. About to walk out into an over-packed church, full of hunters and fallen angels. He suspects there are a fair few supernatural beings among them, though theoretically all of them have to be well-adjusted. About to get married to Dean Winchester, eldest son of the Winchester family, who presented as Null. A safe haven for an unmated Omega like himself. A status that won’t ever change either. He rubs his hand up the side of his neck.

“Hey,” Gabriel says, snapping his fingers in front of Castiel’s face. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere useful.”

“Ready to go meet your husband?” Gabriel laughs. “Oh, would you look at that smile. You’re kinda into this after all, huh?”

“It’s my wedding day. I feel like my stomach’s full of butterflies, even if I’m not sure who I’m walking towards, you’re right. He was a sweet kid.”

“Let’s hope he grew up hot as fuck.”

He scoffs, though a part of him doesn’t fully disagree.

“Thanks for walking me down the aisle.”

“Psht. Who else? Mom? Luci? Fuck that.” Gabriel works his shoulders, adjusting the sleeves while he does so, and turns his cufflinks the right way up.

“I’m sure the penis cufflinks and matching bow tie will be appreciated.”

“Right?! Let’s go put a smile on mom’s face.”

*

Castiel’s sure he’s squeezing Gabriel’s hand to the point of breaking fingers by the time they make it to the end of the aisle. The faces of those present are a blur, but he catches the familiar ones all the same. 

His mother’s attire is the usual three-piece suit, though the light blue pastel looks off on her. Makes her look softer than he knows her to be.

“Those pearls in her hair look like a halo,” he whispers to Gabriel.

“Looks are deceiving.” 

Very much so. Castiel would almost believe the picture she paints, if it wasn’t for the intent of the bright red smiling mouth never making it to her stern, pale blue eyes. He wonders how many attendees do. 

Their eldest brother, Lucifer, the only Alpha in the Novak inner circle. Held on a tight leash, he is a registered Alpha donor and, if anyone asks Gabe and Castiel, a certified big bag of dicks, because of his protected status. 

“I love her hat,” Gabe mutters. 

He doesn’t need to ask who. His strange hermit aunt, Amara, wearing a wide-brimmed peach-colored hat with wildflowers is pretty much a beacon among their kin. 

“Weird how little we know about her,” he says. “Yet she’s here.”

“You mean besides that she’s supposedly a disgrace and mother doesn’t like her?”

“That.”

A bunch of the family’s business associates, a life he’s thankfully reasonably far removed from: Crowley, Zachariah, Raphaela. All of them look as neat and tidy as his mother in their slick, expensive suits. May as well be attending a funeral, for all the colour they’ve got going for them. Except for Crowley’s ostentatious scarf.

His best friend, Anna, and the only unrelated Alpha tolerated in his life, because his mother can’t exercise control over her. He wishes anyone who wants to try luck.

“Anna’s making _that face_ at you. Translate?”

“Something-something about the impression Dean already made on her, I think,” he admits, before he can think better of it. Makes sense, since Anna tried to call dibs on him when they were kids.

He’s so not ready for it, but he smiles at her, earning a reassuring, wide smile back, while she entwines her hands under her chin as if she’s praying. For all the good that does anyone.

“Well, we’re only halfway. You can still turn back. His side of the church looks crazy.”

Curiosity shoots through him, making his insides feel like a swarm of bees and butterflies are trying to make babies. Wait, no, it’s the birds and the bees. 

_What?_

He knows his family. Through and through. Their faces, the way they carry themselves, their flaws and who he trusts with his secrets. So he allows his attention to be pulled towards said other side of the church. Because at the end of the aisle is Dean and he’s a lot more nervous than he let on.

The Winchester family is large in and of itself, their network massive with a charmingly wild aesthetic, contrasting starkly with the crispness of the Novaks. His gaze tracks over them, searching, sniffing for something, though it’s no use. Everyone in attendance, including the Betas and his husband-to-be near the altar, where he dares not look yet, is hidden behind blockers. 

They’re a diverse bunch, dressed in suits and a surprising amount of plaid. He spots an unusually tall young man, smiling at him kindly, while he tosses his hair out of his eyes. Castiel fails to immediately recognize him. Beside him is a red-headed girl, who looks like she might vibrate out of her skin. The warmth in her dark eyes, when they meet his, takes him by surprise and he returns it hesitantly.

“You recognize anyone?” 

“Tall guy’s his brother. Remember the chubby, little kid?”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah. Totally appropriately dressed dude in the front isn’t his dad though. An uncle, I think? Sort of. Apparently these people like to adopt.”

Castiel nods, charmed by the open body language in the brother. “I remember his parents. His dad seemed nice.”

“His mom was the Alpha, right?”

“Yes.”

“She’s not collared,” Gabriel notes.

Indeed she isn’t. He refrains from commenting further, because although his memories of Mary and John are vague, there is something unpleasant about his mother-in-law that stuck with him. It wouldn’t surprise him if she were a ‘demon’, as unregistered Alphas are colloquially known, though how she manages to steer clear of the authorities is another matter. He can’t recall whether it was something she said or did back then, or if perhaps Dean told him something, but for some reason he doesn’t like her. He feels an intense pang of sympathy for Dean losing his dad so young.

It hardly matters, because all of a sudden Gabriel brings them to a halt, and his blood rushes in his ears. He slowly breathes out, dimly aware of Gabe’s soft chuckle when he releases Castiel, and a large, unfamiliar hand takes his. Instinctively he squeezes down on the warm fingers, only to find the pressure returned. They entwine in a stuttering heartbeat and he’s not sure which of them did that. The next thing he knows, they’re standing less than an arm’s length away and all that’s left to do is look up.

Except he’s stuck on Dean’s _hips_ , cause they sort of shimmied into his line of sight when their entwined hands fell between them at thigh height. Speaking of thighs. Everything wrapped in an oxblood hue, shiny fabric. Unusual colour choice. He wants to run his fingers over it. Or the... His mouth goes a bit dry. 

There are strands of thoughts, at best. Perhaps. Maybe? What’s his first language again?

Word sounds slip out of his already faint grip on the world, when he drags his eyes across a buttoned waistcoat to a pair of broad shoulders, snug in a tailor-made jacket. No tie. Buttons popped on a black shirt. A hint of a tattoo at his collarbone. Follows the column of tanned skin all the way _up_.

Because apparently Dean’s taller than him. Not by much, he muses, gaze catching on impressions. Oh. He found _a word_. Dean’s an impressionist painting. He must be, the way Castiel doesn’t know where to look first. Because his heart is already realizing what his brain has trouble understanding, lost in the light catching on details and edges.

Dean…

Dean is a lot.

A broad, clean-shaven jaw, which clenches charmingly, even if Castiel has no idea why.

Lips, parted, full and, his sleaze of a brain provides, looking like they’re thoroughly kissable. His own may or may not form a mute ‘fuck’ at it all.

Freckles.

So many sun-kissed freckles, he instantly loses count.

And then Dean smiles, revealing interesting canines.

Ducks his head, while he does. Subdued, oddly vulnerable. But he may be reading that wrong. Castiel reads a lot wrong, except if it’s ink. He hopes he doesn’t let out a whine, when Dean casts him a curious look, his eyebrows expressive above a pair of golden-green eyes. He carries himself with an appealing cockiness, which Castiel can’t pinpoint as bluster or true to form. It could be the way he remembers him. 

Something pulls at him, as if Dean’s reconfirmed, physical existence ties him to the earth. A strange, old feeling swells around his heart, a shadowy echo of which he sometimes feels while reading stories, and once for real when he first met Dean. As pups.

His world narrows down to the two of them. Perhaps he even forgets about himself and the impression he’s hoping to make, while he takes in his husband-to-be and tries to become aware of the world around him once more.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says.

He inhales, body shaking and lungs expanding greedily, because his brain seems to have forgotten he needs that. Oxygen. Honey in his ear, Dean’s voice instantly sinks into his bones: deep, vibrant, and kind, even while he seems acutely aware and restrained under the scrutiny of their surroundings. Contrary to Castiel, who forgot all about them.

“Hello, Dean.”

The priest welcomes and bids the attendees to sit down, taking them along on waves of words Castiel doesn’t listen to. Not fully, because he’s too enthralled. It’s difficult to be disappointed, faced with a man like Dean. The feisty, little pup he once knew grew into this?

If he still had any faith left, he'd say God did him a favour.

A tiny sliver nestles somewhere, mute but stubborn in its wish to be acknowledged. Dean isn’t an Alpha, though how he remembers him, Castiel half-expected him to present as such. Hoped for it, which in terms of sin, is a whopper.

Their fingers remain laced throughout, Dean’s thumb running soothing circles over his palm and the inside of his wrist.

When Dean says the words, he sounds like he means them, though perhaps the fact that his voice breaks a few times has to do with that. It makes Castiel step closer, entwining the other hand as well, because for all that this is a business transaction between their families, he’s going to spend his life with this man.

Castiel’s voice quivers in turn, when he utters the lines that tie them together. Promises of old, more meaningful, he hopes, than the one that got them here.

It’s the next moment he sort of lost track of that catches him by surprise. Vows exchanged.

Kiss.

 _Right_.

He barely has time to remember what it means exactly - nope, kisses aren’t thimbles - when his body, his Omega, takes over and he steps into Dean’s personal space. It begets a surprised widening of eyes, quickly followed by a pleased, crooked smile from his now-official-husband. He relishes the sight, spurred on by impatience and want, if they could just - close - the distance, he’d be grateful.

He wants more the second Dean’s lips find his. Soft, warm, searching in how they mold to his, and he wants to angle his head. Surrender to their first moment. Until Dean breaks it. Quick. Perfunctory, then. His Omega feels borderline insulted.

Until he registers the tremble in Dean’s hands, when they cup his face, and suddenly his mind is skipping like a stone across a lake. To the other shore of potential. Of later. Of their wedding night.

His cheeks flush warm and he’s grateful to notice Dean’s freckles stand out more as well, green eyes guarded, but alight. Almost hopeful.

They don’t let go of one another throughout what little remains of the service, not even on their way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we're off. Next chapter tomorrow. Dean's POV!
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal


	2. I think we do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart tumbles uncomfortably, stomach lurching, when his gaze is caught on the Collared. Castiel’s oldest brother, Lucifer. The Morningstar. His collar’s a touch ostentatious, which, given the other prim outfits, surprises him. Without conscious effort, the information Mary had him rehearsing for weeks comes to him. An approach which made the wedding preparation feel more like a political bootcamp, though he has precious few illusions left when it comes to his family’s - or the Novaks’ - motivations.

Wiggling his nose, Dean tries to expel the sharp scent of incense and one too many bodies between the same four walls, even one graced with the elegant, high ceilings of the church. He’d much prefer to be in the family roof garden. And for all the suppressants he’s taken, this shit really shouldn’t be invading him, but he assumes he’s on edge and even more vigilant than usual.

Sam and Charlie, pups that they are, are both making faces at him, causing a rippling effect around them. Benny’s trying not to laugh and tugs his flat cap a bit lower over his eyes, while Victor grins from ear to ear. Jo pretends she’s too mature for all this, but she’s already mimicking Charlie’s face. Sam’s marginally more successful, because it’s hard to miss his moose of a baby brother, towering over everyone else. Charlie compensates by being infinitely better at it, smooshing up her face between his mother and Bobby. Standing in for his dad, sorta, Uncle Bobby’s glaring at them from under his baseball cap with reluctant fondness.

Despite himself, Dean guffaws. Instantly he’s straightening up from the base of his spine, when he hears his mother’s annoyed sniff. Both culprits are cowed into snickering obedience by her glare. He guesses it takes being a Beta and an Omega to be less susceptible to it. For Dean, it’s the look that triggers his urge to do his part and more. It helps that Charlie’s an outsider - in terms of the family business - and Sam’s mercifully spared from the worst of it. Being one of the most active members within the family business and absolutely immune to the Winchester matriarch, Bobby just doesn’t give any fucks.

So he cricks his neck, willing some of the tension away, and looks at the other side of the church.

He can’t say Naomi Novak looks like Dean will particularly like her, but hey, she’s his mother-in-law. What can he expect? Not like his own is such a treasure. The relatives and business associates all look equally boring and untrustworthy. The only exceptions being Crowley, who’s untrustworthy, but hardly boring, and the lady with the massive hat, who’s clearly anything but boring. Other than that, he wants to dismiss them.

His heart tumbles uncomfortably, stomach lurching, when his gaze is caught on the Collared. Castiel’s oldest brother, Lucifer. The Morningstar. His collar’s a touch ostentatious, which, given the other prim outfits, surprises him. Without conscious effort, the information Mary had him rehearsing for weeks comes to him. An approach which made the wedding preparation feel more like a political bootcamp, though he has precious few illusions left when it comes to his family’s - or the Novaks’ - motivations.

Fallen angels. Trying to hold on to an importance that fell to pieces along with them. The Hunter Council has been debating whether they belong on the list of supernatural beings. Simple answer: yes. Nuanced answer: angels are supposed to be agents of order, therefore exceptions can be made. Dean’s personal answer: no, unless they prove to be dicks.

And guess what? Most everyone he’s met proves that.

The less his husband-to-be knows about his work, the better, he idly thinks, intent on taking this chance for all it’s worth. Provided Castiel isn’t in on everything. He’s having trouble believing the vision, walking towards him down the aisle, would stoop to such depths. The shorter one next to him with the honey-coloured hair, a shit-eating grin on his face - and a friggin’ lollipop in his mouth?- less so. Though the cufflinks go a ways towards mollifying Dean, even if it’s reluctantly. He can’t focus on the other brother, the trickster, Gabriel, too long. Obviously.

Castiel was always beautiful, even as a long-and-messy-haired, awkward, dreamy pup, prone to tripping himself up while he chatted Dean’s ear off about the stories his grandmother or aunt told him. Kept talking, even while Dean prevented him from falling. Maybe holding his hand for too long. Forgive him for not having everything set in stone in his memories.

The memory that cements now when he takes Castiel’s hand is very real though.

Castiel’s widened eyes skitter across his face. Instantly he stops breathing. They’re the kind of ocean blue that has him tilting forward, that strange ‘jump’ feeling coming over him, as if he’s standing at the edge of a cliff with churning waves at the end. Endless, blue depths, dotted with foamy white, to explore. His teeth grit together when he all but does, shying away slightly. Dean idly wonders if Castiel’s on the side of the angels. In this union of theirs.

Who is he kidding? Of course he’s been cornered into this as much as Dean has. No point trying to pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t know what to hope for most. That Castiel may at some point truly want him. The other word, the heavy one, is too much to contemplate. That he’s not roped up in the Novak family business. Or at the very least, if all else fails, that he doesn’t prove a threat to Dean. 

It will be hard enough to hide as it is. Perhaps… If he’s lucky...

His pulse quickens. Not to blame on the exquisite man in front of him. Well… Yeah, okay, listen, he ain’t blind, alright? To either Castiel’s aesthetic or his own tactile needs, such as they are. But it isn’t that. Tied to it though. His Alpha’s all too enticed by the presence of an Omega.  _ His  _ Omega, at the end of the day. A tightness weighs on his chest at that thought and the dangerous oozing slithering comes in its wake immediately, as sure as his next heartbeat. Like Hexxus or Venom, he can never really settle on an apt visual. Unsettling, for sure.

He’s terrified he’s going to be in close quarters with him from this day forward until eternity. That’s marriage for ya, right?

Forever having to pretend he’s something he ain’t. Filter his darkness without fail, every second of every minute of every day, feigning a dulled light of neutrality. Of nothing. Ironically, it skates close to how his insides often feel. 

Not today though. Today, they’re doin’ something.

He resists the urge to sigh. Brow knitting together, he becomes aware of Castiel’s slender fingers laced through his. Soft and warm. He can’t remember the last time he was touched with anything but the twinge of obligation. Except for Sam and Charlie, no one touches, let alone hugs him without restraint or fear. This wedding is an obligation, he reminds himself.

Knowing Castiel doesn’t know, his mind quiets to an interesting eye of the storm stillness, faced with an acute absence of fear opposite him.

A picture of slender grace in a gorgeous pitch-black tux. Unlike Dean and perhaps unsurprisingly, he’s buttoned all the way up in a crisp, white shirt with a bow tie that matches the color of Dean’s suit. It makes his heart do something funny, fully cognizant it wasn’t coordinated by either of the matriarchs.

Castiel screams strength in the subconsciously regal way he holds himself, Dean likes to believe, partly because he remembers the lurching feeling he got when Castiel dragged him up from the depths of the lake all those years ago, after their horseplay almost took a tragic turn. Anna apologized profusely, crying, when she realized she all but drowned him.

Dark scruff, he notes, which pleases him. It hopefully means he can grow out his own, because he hates keeping his beard under full control.

A mouth that has him licking his lips in anticipation, because it’s slightly parted, as if equally confused, mouthing something Dean’s too slow to make out. Until he does and he almost laughs out loud.

There’s a slight tilt to Castiel’s head, when Dean inches closer, heart thumping away rapidly. He wants to touch the dark hair which clearly won the battle against the barber. Still messy then.

And that makes him smile, some of his usual countenance returning to him the way his shoulders relax. So stupid, but he can’t help himself. Does let go of that sigh, while they line up in a subtle, hopefully, forgiving sync.

He registers the words, the way he does near everything else in the waking world: subtly and attentively. Much more engaged than most people believe him to be, except his blood relatives, and that’s because they trained him as such to suit their needs.

It is, therefore, a peculiar experience, when the man beside him succeeds at tilting him just that little bit off balance - by his mere physical presence.

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him that an Omega can have such an effect.

He’s reminded of his own reservations about how smart it is to put him in such proximity with Castiel, when he kisses him, preemptively tightening the hold on his proverbial reins.

Finds Castiel an all too responsive, willing participant. Bold even, in the way he sidles up into Dean’s personal space, and there’s a hint of something wet. Dean squeezes his eyes shut harder, resisting the urge to dip in.

For a brief moment, he believes he catches a scent, but surely, that can’t be possible.

All the same he’s shaking, by the time he’s aware of Castiel’s heartbeat, butterflying under his fingers.

It takes effort to break the kiss and he schools his features, but it’s difficult when faced with the liquid pools of warmth that are Castiel’s eyes. A bit intense.

Maybe there’s hope.

He’ll take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter next week, likely at the halfway point. I'm working out a schedule what with other stuff going on.
> 
> Love,  
> Mal


	3. Locked In Here Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By all accounts, this comes closest to being free of his family for the first time in his life, even if he’s quite certain that the lush island is owned by some or other company with ties to the Novaks. Or the Winchesters. Who knows? Though they don’t strike him as the type for this particular brand of debauchery. It’s difficult to object to as far as honeymoon destinations go. Not with the delicate sliver of a waxing moon, casting its tender light on the calm ocean. More stars overhead than they get in the city.
> 
> And Dean.
> 
> Lest he forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: angst, I guess.
> 
> Okay, I am REALLY not good at distinguishing what constitutes as angst and what doesn't? It probably has to do with what I deem normal. Anyway. I'm gonna put up the angst tag and warnings in those chapters, just to be safe, but I'm not sure how actually angsty this is. Expectations about angst make me nervous, for some reason. I don't write it a lot.
> 
> Let me know. You're my touchstone.
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal
> 
> P.S.: a weekly posting schedule for now! Mark your Wednesdays.

By all accounts, this comes closest to being free of his family for the first time in his life, even if he’s quite certain that the lush island is owned by some or other company with ties to the Novaks. Or the Winchesters. Who knows? Though they don’t strike him as the type for this particular brand of debauchery. It’s difficult to object to as far as honeymoon destinations go. Not with the delicate sliver of a waxing moon, casting its tender light on the calm ocean. More stars overhead than they get in the city.

And Dean.

Lest he forget.

If he thought the man was a sight in his wedding tux, he’s another vision altogether in bright bermuda swimming shorts and oil-stain-aviators. Though he’s shed the latter since the sun went down. Castiel’s been resisting the urge to play with the leather necklace around Dean’s neck or the beady bracelets on his left wrist.

Castiel noticed the tattoo flirting with Dean’s shirt hem during the wedding, so he was expecting some ink. He is, however, trying not to stare at the intricate choreography of tattoos, adorning Dean’s shoulder and upper left arm, snaking over and halfway down his back. Never having pegged himself as the type to be so into it, despite sporting an Enochian one under his ribs, he tries to discern what exactly he’s looking at.

The one under his collarbone, he recognizes as the anti-possession symbol easily. Likely Dean’s first tattoo in the way it’s isolated from the others. Dean’s shoulder blade sports a large, complicatedly decorated circle with various alchemy and anti-magic symbols.

Mercury, as one of the primes, intrigues him. So does Saturn or ‘lead’, but he vaguely recalls Dean’s birthday is in January. Four small dotted circles encasing symbols. A smaller circle with a horizontal line cutting it in half takes a while to sink in, until he remembers it is ‘salt’. He can’t place the other two, though maybe one of them is ‘iron’? The classic four elements are stacked a few inches apart on the back of Dean’s triceps. Small and almost delicate, a thin line connects them and trails all the way down his elbow, subtly curving to end in a Möbius loop on the inside of his wrist. A lifeline? A heartbeat? 

A beautiful whole of line art expands from this one down his flank. Castiel can’t quite tell what he’s looking at beyond clouds, the suggestion of light emanating from under Dean’s skin and tree boughs, but the dreamlike qualities are captivating. He blinks a few times, sniffing the art out as part of Dean’s hunter armour. Some of them are more tangible: a sword on the inside of Dean’s other arm, engraved with runes and encased in chains. The shoulder on that same side has a three quarter bird with its wings out on it.

They’re floating around each other the way he and Hannah were, skinny-dipping in her parents’ pool, during their blessed absence, back when they were sixteen or so. You’d think flirtations would get smoother with age.

Though he’s not fully opposed to this little dance they’ve got going. Dean has an intensity to him that’s making tingles erupt across his whole body every time the little waves Dean creates disrupt the relative peace around him. Combined with a shyness he has trouble rhyming with his memories. The way Dean ducks his head makes Castiel wonder. Why should a man like Dean, handsome, well-connected and Null, be shy? Perhaps it’s the wrong word, but insecure misses the mark even more.

Unless he’s convinced his secondary gender is problematic. Of all genders, it ought to be least so. It’s rare, in any case.

A stray thought passes about his own and how being out in nature may be making him more susceptible to its instincts. Fragrances around him seem more intense and in turn augment the impact of the world around him. His focus being mostly on Dean, that carries a few consequences in where his mind and body are at. He tugs at his swimming trunks, the fabric billowing up generously. His cheeks are warm, pleasantly sun-kissed, and they only spent a few hours on the deck this afternoon, while their barbecue was being prepared. He isn’t entirely comfortable with their personnel, but they’re clearly part of the package and discreet enough.

It _is_ their honeymoon.

Dean’s drifting away from him. His attention being what it is, it takes Castiel a few moments to realize he’s moving towards the cosy half-moon shaped rock formation that reminds him of hot springs. Seeing as those don’t naturally occur in the surf, he suspects the nook is man-made. Its appeal is undeniable when Dean takes up residence, spreading his arms on the rocks as if it’s his couch. His toes and knees briefly break the surface of the water, before submerging once more. They get locked in another gaze stalemate.

Magnetic is a euphemism.

He throws caution to the wind and swims over. He refuses to slow down while he passes the first rocks, so his mind can’t intervene. However collected Dean seems, Castiel experiences a thrill when the mask slips as soon as he crowds into Dean’s space, knees colliding with the smooth rock underwater. With little preamble, he grabs onto Dean’s shoulders and hoists himself into his lap, loving how Dean’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise. An appreciative rumble escapes when Dean instinctively wraps his arms around him, the wide palms catching on his wet back.

Okay.

Okayokay.

Now what?

Despite coming up short for what comes next, he can’t stop smiling, finding an echo of it on Dean’s face. He’s absolutely stunning and the way his hands grip tight right at Castiel’s lower back sends warmth fanning out from the very real point of contact.

He chuffs, even to him a surprisingly sweet and questioning sound, and squints at Dean, while he lets his hands find purchase on his shoulders. The warmth blends into his skin immediately and they grip tighter, caught in each other’s gaze. Dean’s muscles give way gently under the intimate pressure of his fingers, like the ones on Bernini’s statues. He lets them slide down Dean’s chest in search of his heartbeat, smiling softly when he finds it elevated enough under his palm.

For a while, they sit like this. Castiel lost track of his plan and Dean… He has no idea what’s going on behind those gorgeous eyes. Until a flame of intent flickers to life.

Something deeply satisfied starts burning through his veins, the second Dean flips the script. Without effort, he lifts Castiel and turns them around, the stones balmy against his back as he sinks lower into the water. His butt lands on the seat, but Dean pulls him to the edge, smoothly sliding between his legs. He’s towering over Castiel, eyes playful in their darkened state at the yelped sound of encouragement Castiel lets out, his hands just below Dean’s ribs.

Castiel isn’t sure what his face does, but it elicits a response from Dean, who dips in. The moonlight falls away, when he captures Castiel’s lips. Gentle, releasing him far too quickly, so Castiel flutters his eyes open again. Chances are he’s pouting, frowning, a combination of both. 

Through his lashes, Dean’s searching his expression and this time he raises eyebrows. A gesture Castiel mirrors, tilting his chin up so his nose brushes against Dean’s, lips still parted, in a minute, conscious gesture. The hint of their breaths mingling provokes a subtle tightening of various muscles across Dean’s face. A question met with a question, or perhaps a challenge. Dean’s expression ripples with something akin to surrender.

_No. Not that…_

Castiel breathes out, a bit dizzy, his hand on Dean’s abdomen, which flexes under the touch. 

_A claim?_

A furtive thought lost to the next breath, when Dean kisses Castiel again. Open-mouthed now, tempting him to dip in, carried on a low snarl which hints at much more. His hands are firmer on Castiel’s thighs, sliding under the hem of his trunks. Dean presses them flush together, Castiel snaking his arms around his shoulders, the water making it easy to rise up to meet Dean. Hooks his legs together at Dean’s lower back, the soft sound of their wet kisses, muffled breathing and the water all he hears.

Until Dean’s first hint of a rumble turns into a reverberating growl, his fingers tangling in Castiel’s hair. Grips tight there and there’s enough strength to suggest something else. For a moment his neck is bared, so abruptly vulnerable, all he does is let it happen. His thighs squeeze around Dean on instinct, while Dean holds himself up on the rocks, staring down at Castiel.

It must be his imagination.

Eyes glowing red.

Instinct takes over and he presses his nose to Dean’s neck, snuffling. It startles both of them and they freeze. The hold on his hair eases up. He lets out a soft sound under Dean’s gaze, their foreheads almost touching. What Castiel finds there isn’t at all what he was hoping for. Nor, by the looks of it, is it for Dean, but he’s harder to read, possibly because Castiel is getting worked up.

“Your scent is off.”

Dean scowls, baring his teeth, impressive so up close and personal, but schools his features quickly. “You mean I don’t have one.”

Right. _Null_. Castiel is being excessively rude, even for his rusty ass. On their wedding night.

He’s also seeing things. He must be.

But his instincts and emotions are a jumble of fish hooks he can’t hope to disentangle without tearing himself open. He had such high hopes. What just happened… His heart is stuck in sixth gear and they’re still too intimately entwined.

And Dean remains so beautiful, even when he smells like… like… nothing? A cold gust of air, like a vacuum being released, void of anything that could provoke a memory or elicit a feeling.

It’s his own fault for having expectations in the first place. Which makes it hurt more. Why did he dream up Dean as an Alpha? His mom wouldn’t have agreed to their union, had he been. It was never in the cards.

His memories of young Dean are dazzling. Vibrantly sun-kissed. Heavy summer scents. Running wild through the Novak roof garden. Dean laughed. No filter sense of humor that had everyone giggling and hushing each other. Ever-patient when Castiel couldn’t stop talking. Weaved stories easily in turn with less words, but there was a quiet to the pup Castiel was drawn to, as if he could listen between the lines. Quiet, yet somehow connected, fragile and prone to leaving eternal impressions as young friendships at that age tend to do.

His hand still tingles at the mere thought of Dean’s wet skin, when he’d pulled him from the lake by the shoulder, after Anna pushed him in. A vain attempt to gather Dean’s attention, which he remembers being angry for. Until it turned out Dean had no interest in her whatsoever and stuck to Castiel’s side.

“I… I’m sorry. That was very rude,” he mutters, looking away.

They settle somewhat, still close, as if Dean’s reluctant to let go. Castiel’s not sure if it should feel awkward, but he’s shaking - the kind that has nothing to do with cold. Dean’s nothing if not courteous in the face of Castiel’s distress, easing up so he has room to breathe. When did it get so hard to breathe?

“It’s alright. Just not sure what you were expecting.” The words come out measured, with a twinge of curiosity. “They did tell you, right?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, of course. Besides, there was no way my mother was going to let me get married if you were…”

“Hmm,” Dean says, tone leveling out as dangerously as his face, like it’s gone slack with muscle relaxant. He looks away for a moment. “Same.”

Dean regards him heavily, reading Castiel all the same. Or trying to. And knowing himself, he’s giving away too much, so he needs to get a handle on this, before Dean asks one too many questions or, worse, jumps to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I heard you.” Dean sighs and his shoulders slant, twisting away from him. “It’s alright. I wasn’t expecting you to… y’know.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that. “ _Y’know_? I know we’re both college age, but I’m sure we can use the word sex.”

Dean scoffs a laugh, eyes instantly alight, and he likes that. Being able to make him smile. “Okay then. I wasn’t expecting _sex_ ,” he smirks. 

And his tongue flicks out, running over the tip of his canine, which, hmm, implies otherwise, equally juvenile perhaps. The feel of that tongue mere moments ago has heat blooming low in his gut. That and maybe he’s a touch disappointed.

“You weren’t?”

“It’s an arranged marriage. Best not to have too many expectations.” His voice flattens out, going both sour and salty at the same time, which hits a little too hard.

“Whoa,” Castiel snaps. “Guess I deserve that.”

“Godfucking…” Dean sighs, rubbing his face with both hands and swiping one over his mouth. He scratches at his cheek, as if he’s used to having a beard. “I didn’t mean it like that. But don’t tell me you just assumed this would all be… smooth as fuck?”

“Pun intended, I’m sure,” Castiel says before he can help himself. Then pouts. “We were doing okay during the service.”

Dean looks at him, eyebrows doing a funny thing, as if he’s in pain and hopeful at once. “We… Yeah.” Then his jaw clenches and he waves an annoyed hand around. “But Nulls don’t have a scent, so I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he hurries.

“I doubt it is. Omegas need scent. I’m aware.”

“Kinda. I guess.” He’s not sure if that’s true. “I do have a stupidly sensitive nose.” 

For some reason that provokes a sharp sound from Dean, which, when he looks at him, turns out to be a laugh, albeit a sordid one. Dean sinks deeper into the water up to his lips, bobbing around, for all the world looking like he wants to kick something. “Again, I’m…”

“Sorry, I heard you too,” he snaps back, eyes stinging.

He pushes away from Dean, who doesn’t stop him. Castiel loathes it the second the distance is there, but wants it all the same, because his imagination is crowding his reality with things that don’t belong there. How he wants Dean to be less gentle. Like that second half of their kiss. Or more assured. He shies away from the visual of seeing Dean’s eyes flash red in the moonlight.

 _Shit_.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Is he truly this hung up on the _theory_ of Alphas, he wonders, even while idly floating around the water, Dean’s gaze following him. Fierce still in its aim, it plays into his ill-advised wants, and he breathes out shakily, clenching his teeth when Dean’s smooth voice travels across the waves to meet him.

“Your eyes are real pretty like that. I mean, they’re stunning regardless, but…”

His heart lodges in his throat.

“What do you mean?”

“The gold,” Dean smiles ruefully. “Gone now. Not sure what that was.”

Which is about the politest way Castiel can expect Dean to go about that without flatout asking him where his thoughts just went. He’s panicking because his Omega really shouldn’t come out to play. Right? Not when he’s not with an Alpha.

“I…” He closes his eyes against this, even for him, exceptional level of rustiness. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re right.”

“About?”

“Not letting one too many expectations in. It’s been a long day.”

“Right.”

Why does Dean sound angry now?

“And intense,” Dean says after a dragged out silence. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

Off-puttingly dismissive, that, but it’s at least a truth Castiel can acknowledge out loud.

“Very.”

He wants to say more, ask Dean things, even when he can’t figure out the questions. Part of him even wants to kiss him again, because it was intense and stirring, and Dean’s eyes shined so much brighter when Castiel was in his lap. _Not_ red. Just bright.

“That’s okay. It’s late anyway.”

“Not sure if we have to abide by a schedule out here.”

Dean starts moving towards the beach, moonlight glittering on his broad back. The air around Castiel goes colder.

“You joining me in the bed?” Castiel asks, trying to keep his voice even.

Dean casts him a tentative glance over his shoulder, then frowns. “I can sleep on the couch.”

Their cabin is luxurious, but has only one bedroom for obvious reasons.

“No,” he says. “I mean, only if _you_ want to?”

Letting out an explosive exhale, Dean turns around, water coming off him in pretty little rivulets, while he keeps moving backwards. “Cas, it’s fine,” he says, spreading his arms for emphasis. “Get your rest. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

He manages not to physically recoil, but the rejection stings and he glares anyway.

“Fine,” he huffs, following Dean out of the water.

They dry off in uncomfortable silence. Dean spreads his towel on one of the loungers. Castiel watches him walk away, vanishing in the dark forest, and he’s alone with the candle light and the stars. What looked promising and inviting upon arrival now looks dark and empty, but he steadfastly ignores it. The large candles outside serve to keep mosquitoes at bay, but should help Dean find his way back as well.

As he steps inside their lodge, the temperature the exact same as outside, he realizes he has no idea what kind of senses Nulls possess. If any.

He rinses off the day in the easily-fits-two bath tub. At least it’s made of stone, he muses, and not some ecologically unsound marble or, heaven forbid, mineral. The bed does elicit a response. It’s large and soft-looking with its sheer mosquito veils and huge wooden headboard. The pillows are arranged with enough of a nest hint to provoke a sad whine. He grimaces at himself. Grumping and muttering out loud, he crawls in, the light cotton sheet soft on his arms and legs. After some inner debate, he grabs one of the bigger pillows and cuddles up with it.

It takes about an hour before he begrudgingly accepts sleep isn’t coming with ease. He goes to drink a glass of water and returns to his still warm spot, foregoing the pillow and rolling to the cool side of the bed. Somehow he manages to reach that exhausted semi-sleep yet gets easily pulled from it, when the mattress dips with added weight. A small sound of surprise slips out, when he realizes Dean is joining him after all.

The scent of shower gel wafts around him, but beyond it, nothing.

Dean settles down, maintaining a generous distance that sends a chill down Castiel’s spine. He’d like warmth. Gentle, but startlingly loud in the night, Dean speaks, as if he knows Castiel is awake.

“You can have your own room when we’re ho… when we get back. Whatever you need to be comfortable with this, Cas.”

He turns on his side, one arm tucked under his head, and watches Dean’s profile.

Oh, if only Dean knew. Hell, if only Castiel understood it himself.

He wants to reach for Dean’s hand, but doesn’t.


	4. Come Out and Haunt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your freckles…”
> 
> Dean makes a face, trying not to laugh at Cas’ squinty expression. “What about them?”
> 
> “We’ve only been here for a few days and they’re breeding.”
> 
> Christ. So awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a spider in the second scene. It starts after the little * with "Is that what I think it is?". My Alpha reader told me to put this up. Dean no like. Cas save.
> 
> Dancing around each other! Titles for chapters 3, 4 and 5 are lines from an old familiar, [Apocalypse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paODmdHQWMo), by Cigarettes After Sex (aptly abbreviated to CAS).  
> Hugs,  
> Mal

Exactly what you can expect from a honeymoon when _that’s_ your wedding night, Dean can’t say with any level of certainty, but it’s not a priority. His, as it stands, is clearly keeping his goddamn Alpha in line. Never mind that Cas seemed into it, which is a whole other tangled ball of yarn in itself. Maybe the dude likes it rough. Doesn’t strike Dean as the type, but he has a lifetime to find out. If he survives.

Who the hell thought sex would not be problematic though? Sex ed being what it is, no surprise. Only ignorance and a lack of resources. He feels both his mom and the doctor didn’t give him the full story, when they assured him meds could keep everything under control, but he’d only been fifteen at the time. Back then it was mainly a matter of keeping his scent hidden. The other stuff came later. His knot hurts, because what he took preventively to keep it from popping - just in case, better safe than sorry, etc., etc. - isn’t without side effects. At least he assumes that is to blame rather than him feeling horrendously frustrated and at odds with himself.

Cas is cute though, his Omega clearly enjoying the surroundings and fragrances, and it goes a ways towards easing some of the mood he got out of bed with. But that isn’t uncommon either.

Daytime is easier than evening and night time, he’s learned. Sharing the bed remains a moment that’s a dime on its side, bidding each other good night, neither one of them sure whether they should kiss or hug... Or... _Y’know_. So they usually end up doing this awkward hovering - Cas has an uncanny ability to _stare_ \- until they sort of give up and settle down. But they’re ploughing through it and he tries his best to compensate for that obvious, painful discomfort during the waking hours. Cas is good company, if a bit awkward.

Okay, fine, Cas’ smile is an antidepressant on its own. 

Cause he tilts his head a bit, when he aims it at Dean. His eyes are as bright as the ocean. And unsure, as if he’s testing the waters to see if Dean’s willing to play along. So he does. Because he hates to be responsible again for the hurt he provoked two nights ago. Cas seems overall less talkative than when he was a kid, but Dean quickly learns it depends entirely on the subject matter.

“Your freckles…”

Dean makes a face, trying not to laugh at Cas’ squinty expression. “What about them?”

“We’ve only been here for a few days and they’re breeding.”

Christ. So awkward. Cas seems to realize it the next second, dropping his sunglasses from his messy hair back to his nose. Dean shakes his head, a bit bemused, but doesn’t chase it down. Nulls don’t breed.

As soon as they come across a collection of hip-height stone statues, that side of Cas breaks through. He circles them one by one, firing off questions Dean at first scrambles to even process, but then realizes he doesn’t expect an answer. He finds himself engaging Cas anyway. A bit. It’s well out of his ball park, but Cas’ enthusiasm is adorable.

“This one has a tail,” Cas says. He prods at the appendage at the statue’s butt.

“That one horns.”

“You think they’re guardians?”

He shrugs, bending over to look at the scowling stone face, and taps the critter’s nose with his index finger, grinning. “The word ‘demon’ springs to mind.”

“These guys? Aww, no, they’re too cute.”

“Maybe they’re meant to be ten foot tall. Hard to tell when they look like the seven dwarves. Though you’re probably right. Demons look like everyone else, so you can’t tell they’re there.”

“There’s a part of the population that’ll object to that.”

“Fair. I’ve come across enough of them.”

“Actual demons?” Cas squeaks.

He laughs, as they fall into step, in no hurry to get anywhere. Dean likes it, this aimless wandering, a complete 180 from his usual activities.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean those.”

“Still rude,” Cas sniffs. “To use the moniker on unregistered Alphas.”

He doesn’t much feel like engaging the subject. Not that he’ll give himself away - not with words anyway - but he needs to be especially vigilant around Cas. It’s with practised neutrality that he nods. “True.”

“Ooh,” Cas singsongs. “Look…”

“ _That_ ’s where we are.”

“You knew where we were going?”

He shakes his head, walking up to the hammocks, dangling between the trees. “No, but I took a look at the island layout before we left.”

“And you remembered?” He shoots Cas a bit of a look at that and watches with delight the way he considers it and nods. “Right… Guess I don’t need to worry about food or surviving here, in case we get stranded.”

Dean allows himself the grin, because yeah, that’s true.

*

“Is that what I think it is?” 

With a soft hum, Castiel looks up from his book. Inside the doorway, Dean is scrunching up his nose, corners of his mouth turned down in queasy disgust. Folding a finger as a bookmark, he blinks a few times through the heavy dusk, fighting the effect of stubbornly reading by flickering candlelight on the deck for the past five minutes.

Dean’s fingers twitch around the glass he’s holding, while he’s leaning over and staring at something out of Castiel’s line of sight on the wall. Vaguely he remembers there’s a watercolour painting there, one of those idyllic interpretations of one of the island’s bays.

“I… don’t know?” he says. “Is it rhetorical?”

Dean cocks his head, giving Castiel an eye roll he’s still not sure how to interpret. His husband seems prone to them, but it’s hard to tell if they’re meant to lure him out or are simply a standard part of Dean’s body language without much sting behind them. Short-lived is the thought when Dean recoils suddenly and shivers.

“Yep. Yeah, that’s exactly what I think it is. And it moved. A friggin’ heart attack with eight legs.”

He reorganizes the words in his head. “An arachnid?”

“Oh, sure, make them sound like triffids. Just what I need.”

Castiel gets up from the comfortable deck chair, laying his book aside, and joins Dean. He slants a sideway glance at him when Dean distances himself and vaguely gestures at the framed piece of art.

“Behind it.”

He taps the frame without hesitation and, hey, there she is. Sizeable, compared to what they get in the city.

“Hi, beautiful,” he murmurs. When he bends to take a closer look at her pattern, Dean lets out a small whimper.

“Cas, come on, man.”

“Generally, the bigger they are, the less scared you need to be. And I’d think you run into worse, oh, mighty hunter.”

Dean shoots him a real dirty look. Okay, sore spot, he thinks, schooling his expression back to what he hopes is, if not understanding, then at least neutrality.

“Can we just get rid of it?”

Somehow Castiel guesses it’s not so much ‘we’ as ‘he’, but he refrains from pointing that out.

“Her,” he says instead. “Okay. But it’s not like this house isn’t open to all things slithering and crawling.”

“Real helpful! Like I’m gonna get _any_ sleep this way.”

His face betrays him. Castiel knows it the second the silence thickens around them, because there’s _a lot_ they could or should be doing instead of sleeping that they distinctly haven’t. Since the first night, Dean’s held a peculiar balance. Peculiar as in distinctive to Dean or genuinely odd. Hard to tell with what he has to go on.

And distance.

He works his lips pensively, considering Dean’s request and the fact that they’ve only been around each other for a few days. From zero to sixty. They have to get to know one another, so as traditional as it would be to ‘hop to it’ and as much as that would play into his romantic needs, such as they are, perhaps he ought to count his blessings they get along at all and practice patience instead. Never mind that even the slightest hint of remembering _that_ kiss gets him generously hot under the collar. He scowls.

“When you say ‘get rid of it’, I hope you mean I can put _her_ outside?”

“If _you_ mean in the ocean, then yes.”

“Dean… They’re useful creatures and symbolically they’re wonderful, especially one as pretty as her. And they float sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay, listen, _it_ can go be pretty and symbolic anywhere but within a ten foot radius of me. Or you, for that matter. What if it’s venomous?”

He makes a doubtful sound and studies her closer. “She may be a jumping spider.”

“What?” Dean squeaks and backs away ever further, as if he’s scared she can cross olympic distances. “Get your face outta hers. Its. Whatever!”

Fair point, so he obliges.

“Why do you even know these things? Fuck me… Please tell me you don’t own pet spiders, Cas.”

Castiel grins wickedly and glances at Dean, but whatever teasing remark he’s about to make dies in his throat at the sight of his wide-eyed, genuinely frazzled husband.

“I don’t own pet spiders,” he says pointedly. “And I’m pretty sure she’s a harmless nursing spider.”

“Oh, great, sounds like it makes babies.”

Foregoing the remark that ‘all of life makes babies one way or another’, he straightens. “Let me put her outside, so you can relax.” 

Not uncommon for his strange interests to put people ill at ease, he feels this is different. He walks to the kitchen for a glass and grabs the introductory folder that welcomed them to their lodge on the first day.

He shoots Dean a stern look. “No, she’s _not_ going in the ocean.”

Dean looks mutinous and grumbles. Castiel gets to work, gingerly placing the glass around her. When he nudges her on one side, her legs twitch and she makes herself smaller. Ever so gently, he goes about sliding the folder under, flush to the wall, waiting patiently for her to move onto it before inching it further.

“Tell me, dear husband,” he mutters softly, while he does so.

Something shimmers on the air at those words, which he deems his imagination, until the hair in the back of his neck tickles and he knows Dean inched closer. Either because of the remark or some morbid curiosity now that the threat is under a dome.

“What?”

“How do you hunt the things that go bump in the night so successfully, at least as far as I’ve been told, when she freaks you out so much?”

“It’s very different when I’m hunting, _dear husband_.”

A shiver, as if Dean just licked up his spine, shoots through him. 

Okay, he inched _a lot_ closer.

His hands shake and the heat that was at his back is gone. He lets out a soft snarl, but doesn’t take his eyes off what he’s doing. “Maybe don’t do that, unless you want me to drop this and she scuttles off somewhere.”

When she’s settled, he looks over his shoulder. Dean’s eyes are sparkling and Castiel has the strange sense that danger has an unfortunate side effect on him. Perhaps both of them, if his heartbeat’s anything to go by. Dean’s expression smooths to carefully controlled blank as soon as Castiel hoists the folder and glass off the wall onto his hand, and the energy shifts.

“There you are,” he smiles at her.

“Do you need a pet?”

“Pardon?” He squints at Dean over the bottom of the glass.

“Do - you - need - a - pet? I don’t think I can handle you cooing at spiders, so if you need something to love on, we’ll get you a pet.”

He smiles, working his tongue inside his mouth so he doesn’t say the obvious. With a gentle eye roll, he goes outside, taking the steps with care. He’s pretty sure this critter hurtling through the air isn’t going to help Dean find sleep. He isn’t exactly on Castiel’s heels, but in pursuit.

“Far enough, yeah.”

“Yes, I’m getting that,” he laughs, while he switches out the candlelight for dusk. Tonight’s moon is obscured by a generous layer of milky clouds. “You’re adorable.”

“And stop complimenting it!”

“That wasn’t to her, you assbutt.”

Is he dense? He can’t be dense. The remark shuts both of them up. Their dynamic heaves like waves, he’s noticed. Sometimes calm and almost serene, for all that Dean’s not saying and Castiel fills the silence; sometimes wild and spraying all over like now, where they can’t seem to settle on one thing or the other.

He returns to find Dean marginally more relaxed, downing half of his glass in one go. The rum here is very good and sleeping it off in these surroundings makes mornings easier than at home. Though perhaps having Gabe and Luci around the house negatively affected those moments. Or maybe something else is to blame.

“Question…” 

Reaching for Dean’s glass, he smiles softly when Dean lets him take it. He tries to keep his face neutral, but surely his eyes twinkle while he sips from it, pleased with how Dean’s eyes are glued to him. This stellar plan derails whatever question he had lined up as he sort of gets caught there. He licks the edge of the glass, when he almost spills some of the rum and it runs down his hand and arm. Dean huffs a soft laugh, as if he’s at a bit of a loss, and flops back down on his lounger, legs splayed wide. Rubbing his jawline for something to do, he’s almost pouting up at Castiel.

“I deal with them fine on hunts, okay?” He’s kinda cute in his now embarrassed, wave-it-off bluster, trying to glare but seemingly distracted by Castiel’s tooly shenanigans with the rum.

“I imagine you do,” he says fondly. “Not sure how you’d survive otherwise. You keep us safe in the wild, I’ll keep the neverbugs at bay.”

Dean taps his nose a few times, unsure, but then he smiles, scratching at his scruff, finally giving into the moment. He thinks he was right about the beard, while he hands Dean his glass back.

“Sure, Cas. Thanks for getting that one.”


	5. I Will Reach For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s heated gaze almost radiates through the aviators. “Serves you right for blundering into the unknown flora. Everything’s in full bloom and trying to fornicate in your nose.”
> 
> Castiel giggles wildly, his nose itching in a Pavlov response at the remark. “But they were so pretty.”

What this island has going for it, Castiel thinks, is its seclusion. Besides the obvious lush surroundings, permanent sunshine and crystal-clear waters, but that doesn’t mean no one lives here. Can’t dump two honeymooners and a bunch of personnel on an island, expecting the latter to miraculously vanish conveniently, the former not to want to soak up some local experiences or either to go without modern facilities.

Such as a pharmacy.

Mind, it’s nothing like what they’re used to in the city. Calling the pharmacy modern would be a stretch at best, and he’s being polite. Hands in his bermuda’s pockets, Dean’s filter is as faulty as ever, when they stand side by side in front of the little, rickety place.

“Tell me you’re up to date with your shots. Cause, uhh, this joint doesn’t look like it has any of the ones you’d like them to have when it gets urgent.” He’s pursing his lips hard enough for his dimples to show.

“Good thing it’s only an allergic reaction then.”

“Allergic reactions can be dangerous,” Dean says sharply.

Dean isn’t exactly what you’d call pleased with him. Under normal circumstances, this would likely upset Castiel. He isn’t fond of conflict, though living with his brothers has taught him how to stand his ground well enough. In this setting, he is less bothered by it. The fact that Dean seems to be doing it more for show than anything else helps. Maybe he likes fussing and doesn’t that rub his Omega the right way?

“Not these.” Castiel tries to sound certain, but he’s been scratching at his arm and both legs a lot.

Dean’s heated gaze almost radiates through the aviators. “Serves you right for blundering into the unknown flora. Everything’s in full bloom and trying to fornicate in your nose.”

Castiel giggles wildly, his nose itching in a Pavlov response at the remark. “But they were so pretty.”

“Everything here is pretty, Cas,” Dean says, tone a bit plaintive at Castiel’s lack of restraint. “That spider was pretty, according to you anyway. Doesn’t mean you just touch it.”

“But plants are different…”

Dean raises one hand, palm out, to emphasize his words. “I’ll say it again. Triffids, but for real this time.”

Castiel bounces his leg, both because it’s itchy and he doesn’t get the reference Dean’s made twice now, which makes it sound a bit redundant when he says it out loud. “I… I don’t get it.”

“Get what? There was a whole bunch of, what’s it called, elephant’s ear and you walked right into them. They have these needle crystals to ward off their herbivorous enemies.”

“I know _that_. The pretties growing above them just made me forget. I mean… What are triffids?”

Tugging them down by the corner, Dean looks at him incredulously over the rim of his sunnies. “You don’t know what Triffids are?”

“Didn’t my question just imply that?” he bites, the itching getting to him.

Clever - and, heavens, very, _very_ pretty in this light - green eyes track his annoyed gestures and Castiel fidgets some more, the heaviness of Dean’s gaze making him feel worse.

“Tell you what,” Dean says, thumbing at the door. “Let’s find what we need. Local plant, local remedies, right? I’ll tell you about them while I take care of that.”

*

"If Triffids are plants worthy of being called sentient, you can't call Charlotte an 'it'."

"Charlotte? Oh..." Catching on, Dean groans, giving him a gentle stink eye. "You named her... it, didn't you?"

He hums in affirmation, bemused by his current circumstances. Apparently ‘take care of that’ really means what Castiel hoped it did, while listening to an exceptionally animated amd detailed description of a now-capitalized Triffid. He’s stretched out on the bed in his underwear, two of their largest towels under his ass and legs. Dean’s sitting at his feet, unscrewing the lid on the tin jar they bought at the pharmacy. Both of them instantly snort softly through their noses at the fragrance. It isn’t bad, but definitely pungent.

Dean smirks, blinking against the sting of the ointment. “It smells like it will keep the bugs away.”

Castiel shoots him a glare that he hopes can peel paint, annoyed at himself more than Dean, but… Well, he’s there and he thinks he’s funny. He isn't.

“Maybe you should sleep on the couch then.” Castiel leans back, crossing his arms.

“Touchy, are we?” Dean doesn’t even grace him with a glance while he says it, instead leaning over his legs, an almost clinical expression on his face, as his hands hover less than an inch from his skin.

He refrains from stating the obvious about why exactly he’s ‘touchy’, the little angry bumps on his legs and arm doing the job for him. Admittedly, it wasn’t his brightest moment, but he’s not going to admit to that, not with Dean being an assbutt about it. Not that he’s making fun of Castiel or even saying anything, but the memory he had that Dean conveys messages without necessarily saying much holds. And this one he gets.

It has a smug, somewhat scolding ‘I told you so’ written all over it. And he did. Tell Castiel. Right before he walked into them, mesmerized by the colourful flowers dangling above the elephant’s ear.

Dean clicks his tongue, jaw set as if he’s mulling something over, and he scents the air out of sheer habit, pouting mentally during the exhale of that attempt. 

“Hold on. Be right back.”

“Hmm? But it _itches_.”

“Just give me… God, you’re impatient.”

The casual use of his father’s name humans are so prone to briefly distracts him. It confirms his mother’s working theory that so far they haven’t figured out his absence. Or existence.

“Have you _seen_ you when the food’s being prepared? Some of these people look like they wanna put up wards against you, probably ‘cause they think you have a parasite.”

“Ha! Good luck with that.”

“What, the wards or the parasite?”

Dean rummages about in the bathroom, his voice a bit muffled. “Both.” 

When he reappears, he’s holding the package of cotton pads and one of those amber pharmacy bottles people use for home remedies. The mattress soft and bouncy, Castiel gets jostled when Dean resettles at his feet. Pressing down on the cap, Dean unscrews it and soaks a triple layer of cotton pads in its contents.

His leg jumps away involuntarily when Dean is about to touch him. “What’s that?”

“A herbal tincture. It’ll hopefully help clear out whatever needles are still in there and ease the itching.”

“Tincture? What a witchy thing to have.”

“We hunt witches. Ergo, you pick up a thing here and there. So can I or not?” Dean says tightly.

“Yes! Yes… Sorry.” 

Though he isn’t sure why he’s apologizing and then he tries to chase that down, while the first hint of an almost minty effect hits his skin. Wherever Dean applies it, a cool trace is left behind, and Castiel sighs, the muscles that were locked in place relaxing.

“Though you’re not wrong to question why I’d have it in the first place. They get up to some nasty shit.”

It takes him a second to catch on. “Oh… Witch remedies?”

“This is more herbalism than magic. But some of what they get up to is downright disgusting.”

He’s aware. The Novaks deal with all sorts and Crowley’s a witch. Or used to be. Man’s always a bit sketchy on the details, especially the ones that apply to himself.

“It feels nice,” he says softly, then flinches when Dean hits a spot at the back of his knee where there are clearly still tiny crystals embedded in his skin. 

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “Turn over, will you?”

He goes with the request without so much as a comment and rolls onto his stomach, a familiar sadness seeping in which for the life of him Castiel can’t explain. He recognizes it as the familiar feeling that often keeps him awake at night, contemplating everything and nothing.

“I’m gonna use tweezers for a second, okay?”

Not trusting his voice, he nods wordlessly and apparently Dean’s paying attention to him. Glancing down his side to where Dean’s sitting, he can’t really see him, except for the bow leg that’s bent and propped up against Castiel’s thigh, the other stretched out, his toes curling into the carpet. There’s the prickly stings when Dean starts removing the little bastards with care. Castiel adjusts his torso, propping an arm underneath himself so he can see better. Dean’s hands are gentle in their touch, softening up the hunter considerably. Castiel chews his lips, rubbing his cheek against his hand slowly.

“Sorry… I made such a mess.”

Dean’s mouth crooks up at the corner in amusement, focusing intently on Castiel’s legs as he drags the cotton pads down from his knees to his ankles in slow, long stripes. “Trust me, Cas, this ain’t a mess.”

“It isn’t?”

Again Dean laughs and a painful hope tightens around Castiel’s heart like a fist. If this is how it can be…

“Nope. Easily remedied, we can still go about our way, and I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

“You’d think so,” Castiel says, allowing Dean’s teasing to pull him from his thoughts.

*

Castiel’s stomach dropped to the pit of his gut, the second Dean got off the phone with his mother, and hasn’t recovered since. How urgent can something be to want to ruin your own son’s honeymoon? They were barely starting to know their way around the island. Well, _he_ was. Dean can find his way blind.

Now he’s packing up his stuff, hating the fact that some of it is going into his suitcase damp, while his breakfast would like to defy the laws of physics much the same way his stomach is. They planned to try out the fish restaurant tonight and go surfing tomorrow, but none of that’s going to happen, and he hasn’t experienced this level of dislike for someone in a while. Because he’s convinced it’s no coincidence.

So he’s slamming down his belongings with a little too much force in an attempt to let out some of that anger. It frustrates him when they land dully on the couch or bounce to the floor. And maybe he wants to coax out Dean. Test him into caring enough to ask Castiel what’s wrong or apologise on his mother’s behalf. Which isn’t fair, but he’s not okay. Say something, anything, he wishes loudly, to ease his mind into not believing the honeymoon was always meant to be interrupted, never giving them a chance.

He gulps down the acid reflux bubbling up and winces. At least it was only the Winchesters and not a united effort. If that had been the case, he likes to think Gabriel would have given him a head’s up. Unless he doesn’t know what they’re up to either. Closing his eyes, he squeezes down on his toiletry bag, its contents digging into his palms. Ease up, he sighs, it isn’t as bad as you think it is. Right? It can’t be.

This is his new life. Dean is the Winchesters’ second in command, which determines what their marriage is going to look like.

He tucks the bag away and returns to the bathroom to check if they left anything behind.

*

Dean can’t not hear how loud Cas is being in the living area and ignores it with everything he has, because he’s processing and analyzing. Whatever artefact that needs their attention so suddenly has to be big for his mother to call him back. He asked who ordered it found and what _exactly_ it is. The fact that she wouldn’t give him those details likely means she doesn’t plan to give them at all, period. Not as uncommon as it should be, even to her right hand. Rather she’ll order him and Sam on research duty. He loathes research and Sam’s much better at it, especially when combined with Charlie, even if she technically doesn’t work for them, which he all pointed out to no avail. The order stood.

Come home. Now.

He locks his suitcase and zips up the backpack, double-checking he has all their papers. Glancing around the bedroom a last time, he files away any regrets he might have, before he goes to find Cas.

His husband is standing at the door, his coat slung over his arm.

“Ready to go?”

Hidden behind a stunning amount of blockers, Cas’ eyes still speak volumes, but he nods, lips and jaw setting stubbornly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to change the posting date whenever I post, so stuff gets buried. So silly *rolls eyes at self* this fic is proving to be a balancing act for me! My Alpha reader has the patience of a saint and, thankfully, a lot of enthusiasm. There will be mood boards incoming (retroactively added to chapters already posted), made by said Alpha.
> 
> Hugs to whoever's decided to join on this particular ride! I appreciate your presence tremendously <3  
> Mal


	6. Gave You All My Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, no,” he mutters, as he pushes the door open.
> 
> “Oh, no, what?” Cas echoes, bumping into Dean. He glances over Dean’s shoulder to find a beaming Charlie, arms wide. “Oh, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded moodboards to chapters 1, 3 and this one, 6. More to follow. All of them are made by my Alpha reader, [Tanstaaflz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TANSTAAFL/pseuds/TANSTAAFL). Thank you, darlin', as ever, you beautiful soul. <3
> 
> Longish chapter. Hard to judge on this medium tbh. Get a drink or go to the bathroom maybe?
> 
> Love,  
> Mal

Dean tries to focus on the road. Really.

It’s just that the six lane road is such a familiar sight, with the skyline appearing against the darkened heavens, and never fails to impress. Though he _has_ been mildly put out since the stars got swallowed up by artificial light, picking up a similar sentiment from Cas, and that’s new. The city’s myriad of tall, sleek skyscrapers are sporadically lit, her inhabitants never all asleep at once - in fact, quite the opposite, certain groups are very active at night.

A fair few of the giant buildings are connected on several levels by raised pathways, twisting and arching up or down, depending where they wish to lead in aesthetically pleasing curves. Traffic evidencing her permanent vigilance, cars and trucks light up the regular roads with golden headlights and red taillights. All of it reflects off the canals, meandering around and through the city, used for both tourism and commercial ends. Though he loathes heights, he’s fond of the top levels, covered in roof gardens. From luscious and wild to pristinely maintained, vertical agriculture is an important part of daily life and commerce, thanks to trading deals with the various, cultural districts, its suburbs and free-range communities, nearby smaller towns and beyond. In numbers, human and supernatural combined, they’re rivalling the likes of Osaka.

Being what he is, he knows better than most the dark underbelly and those denizens. They’re not all bad, Sam likes to say, and Benny being an alpha vampire _and_ his best hunting buddy, Dean can’t really argue the point. Not with arguments anyway. Still, the sentimental moderation usually flies out the window when he’s confronted with the reality of them in the throes of a hunt.

His Alpha needs space to _be_ and his new life means there will be distinctly less of that.

For once he’s not blasting music, but that’s because he sensed Cas needed quiet after their return trip. Despite the comforting sound of Baby’s engine, Cas beside him and their destination closing in, his insides are at war. His mother’s phone call came as a genuine disturbance. Though he hadn’t been waiting for the call, it was no real surprise either, lest he forget where his true allegiance lies, which inevitably leads him to wonder about Cas’. No doubt not for the last time and he wonders how he’s supposed to trust his husband. Ever. Somehow his mother’s demanding voice cut through a relative calm he’d found without realizing, which he is still trying to wrap his head around. Dean doesn’t do peace of mind or such nonsense, no matter how much Sam tries to convince him of the benefits of self-awareness and meditation.

He’s plenty self-aware. He just has to sideline what any of that implies.

And let’s be fair, part of him is thrilled to get back to the hunt. He has to be at The Bunker by ten tomorrow morning. Granted, his specific brand of normal is anything but that and it now encompasses Cas, which carries with it a new set of rules he will need to figure out and finetune ASAP.

He chances a sideways look at the thought. Cas has been unusually quiet, but isn’t asleep, which is what he half expected. He looks away and back immediately, when he catches it. Dean tries not to grin, but it’s a lost cause. Because his husband’s running his hand over Baby’s leather as if it’s the softest thing he’s ever felt. Subconsciously, perhaps, the way he moves and stares out the window. Hell, Cas is even sniffing her out subtly. Tracking his body language, Dean frowns when under his sternum something bright radiates, like the sun peeking from behind the clouds. There’s that other reason why returning is wise. He stomps down on whatever it is.

“You like her,” he says, voice heavy with appreciation nevertheless.

Jolted slightly out of his reverie, Cas casts him a quick glance, smile included, and nods. “I take it she has a name?”

“How so?”

“Because _she_ ’s a she. That usually entails something or other.”

“Not wrong. Her name’s Baby and she used to be my dad’s.”

Cas looks at him, pressing his lips together, and, though his face reveals very little, Dean suddenly realizes with an almost painful intensity that Cas probably remembers his dad. Which means he can pry and Dean’s not in the mood for that. He shoots Cas a warning look and finds that beautiful face doing things Dean has trouble interpreting. So subtle, the way he moves his eyebrows and tilts his head a little, as if listening for something Dean can’t hear. Then Cas nods and Dean relaxes a bit.

“Well, she’s very beautiful and cosy. I can tell you take care of her.”

He sounds genuinely pleased. To emphasize his point, he presses into his seat, sinking deeper, before he looks to their suitcases on the large backseat, dragging Dean’s attention with it. Why is beyond him and Cas has no idea what Dean’s gotten up to back there, despite his mother’s best efforts to limit his freedom.

The uptick in Cas’ eyebrows precedes his scent and Dean clamps down harder on the steering wheel. He can’t seem to look away from Cas. It’s sure going to be interesting _not_ letting Cas know how much he picks right out of the air. Maybe he won’t need to, though, he thinks, when Cas tilts his head and locks eyes with him. Okay, so truth be told, most conversations about Baby eventually go down this road - the backseat _is_ huge - except this isn’t a conversation, so how are they even doing this? Yet Cas seems right there with him.

Cas purses his lips and narrows his eyes, going from innocent to teasing in a heartbeat. “Perhaps you should focus on the road.”

“Right,” he says.

Thank fuck they’re almost home. _Home_. Weird. He has only lived with his family so far. A new roof top apartment, which miraculously isn’t located in or near The Bunker or the Novak Penthouse, but he’s sure somehow still has ties to either of them.

“I’m going to miss all the green,” Cas says with a sigh. He forms a fist with his hand and rests his cheek on it, his forehead pressed to the window, a touch forlorn. Dean can’t help but admire the perfect angles of his face in profile. “And the fresh air.”

Humming his agreement, Dean smiles to himself. Though they had little say in its design - the place was bought, as is - he, Benny and Jo did some work on it in the weeks prior to the wedding. It drove his mom nuts, because it meant he wasn’t hunting or memorizing all the information she wanted from the Novaks, never mind that his mind is like a steel trap.

All worth it though, when they finished the roof garden, pergola included. The garden got extra attention, thanks to a surprising call from Gabriel. All sass and no sense of decorum, the words “Dean-o! My brother’s gonna miss our lush and fancy roof garden. Get to work!” will be forever etched in Dean’s brain, not in the least because Gabriel, or Gabe as he insisted, was sucking on a lollipop during the whole conversation. Dean had taken the liberty of designing and furnishing the garden, though he had no idea about Cas’ taste at the time, besides Gabriel’s input and somehow he didn’t fully trust that. (“String lights shaped as _what_? I don’t think so, Gabe.”) 

Their stay on the island, however, makes him hopeful that the surprise is likely to please Cas.

He speeds up, eager to get home.

*

Castiel doesn’t know the building they’re driving into, but the neighbourhood is familiar, the main boulevard its primary attraction and one he walked regularly with the family when he was younger. It’s a commercial district geared towards young couples and families. On the boulevard, parallel to their street, all ground floors are occupied by businesses, small and large. He remembers escaping from his mother’s hawk eye to rush from window to window or try to sneak into the sweet shops with Gabe. Coffee houses, bistros and restaurants; a gym; different brands of clothing stores; antique, books and flower shops; the typical tourist trap shops that sell ‘must haves to take home’; a grocery store and lots of night shops; a tailor; a few daycares and a Pee-Wee Herman’s, which Castiel and his brothers set foot in several times. That never ended well. Not for anyone else anyway.

The dark of night is switched out for glaring fluorescent lights overhead. He squints and rubs his eyes. Dean steers Baby with ease, despite her size within the confines of the underground parking, and Castiel stares at his hands on the wheel for a while, only to snatch his eyes away when Dean clears his throat pointedly.

“Hmm?”

“We’re parked. Shall we?”

“Ye…” He nods quickly, searching blindly for the door handle. “Yes.”

Dean hoists the suitcases out the back with ease. Castiel is curious about the trunk full of ‘hunter gear’, but hasn’t dared to ask. It’s hard to miss the slight electric current that sparks whenever they tread too closely to anything family business-related.

“Cas, can you get the elevator? It may take a while to come down.”

“Of course.”

He looks around for the sign and wanders over, expelling the stuffy parking lot air through his nose in short bursts. When the button lights up, he wants to return to help Dean, but he’s already making his way to him, a suitcase in each hand and backpack slung over one shoulder haphazardly.

Behind him, the elevator doors slide open with a gentle ‘ding’.

Dean rolls both suitcases in, sidling Castiel’s over. Their hands meet clumsily when he grabs for the handle and misses. Briefly, Dean touches his arm, stabilizing him, until they settle on either side. Castiel fiddles with the keys in the pocket of his trench, a new one added to the bunch, and it’s starting to dawn on him. This is going to be _their_ home.

“Which floor are we on?” he asks, only now realizing he has no clue.

Dean grins and, ensuring Castiel follows the gesture, presses the top button, making a cute ‘tadaa’ gesture with both hands.

“The penthouse? Really?”

“Really,” Dean says. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and leans against the wall.

“Fifty-two floors. Huh… That’s lots of stairs to jog up and down.”

Dean grimaces as if there’s a spider on the wall behind Castiel. “Jogging?”

“Sometimes. It’s good for you.”

“At what cost though?”

“I… The opposite… Isn’t it?”

“Never mind,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes.

As they travel up in silence, Castiel diligently ignores the wall to wall mirror, because if he even looks half the way he feels, that won’t do and he doesn’t need visual confirmation. He lets his suitcase support some of his weight. Opposite him, head tilted back, Dean’s having opinions on the Muzak playing. Castiel noticed one eyebrow cock up as soon as Dean stepped inside. Both are now trying to reach his hairline and he rolls his eyes, head wobbling like one of those dolls Gabe used to collect.

He snickers at the sight, which pulls those bright greens to him and, oh, god, that smile. It’s almost unfair and Castiel blames his fatigue for the teenage levels of blank brain.

“They’re butchering a classic."

“You actually recognize it? I’m impressed.”

Dean shrugs, a bit stilted. They’re both moving like people who need a bed. Soon. Oh. A marital bed. He feels there’s something they’re forgetting.

“This takes a while,” he comments idly.

“Yeah, hope and pray you don’t ever need to pee urgently upon arrival.”

He snorts softly. “If they have a penthouse, I’m sure they have a bathroom on the ground floor.”

“Probably. But the comfort of home and all.”

For all that Castiel’s heard about the infamous, ruthless Winchester hunters, Dean is starting to sound like a homebody.

*

Dean bonks his head against their front door for a moment, sighing while he fiddles with the keys. “Fuck, I’m beat.”

Behind him, Cas echoes the sentiment, his trenchcoat rustling. The hallway’s quiet in that almost hotel-like padded way. “Yes, me too… Flying is more exhausting than I expected.”

Snorting softly, Dean can only agree. The instant time pressure that came with their sudden departure clearly got to Cas, so Dean spared him the added stress of his own fear of flying. Not that Cas could have done anything, but holding his hand might have been nice.

Suddenly his Alpha rears his head, because there’s noise on the other side of the door. In an apartment that’s supposed to be empty. His hand shoots out to stop Cas in his tracks and shield him. The mental equivalent of Dug’s ‘SQUIRREL’ mellows out instantly, when he focuses on the scents and picks out three with relative ease.

Sam.

Charlie.

Benny.

“Oh, no,” he mutters, as he pushes the door open.

“Oh, no, what?” Cas echoes, bumping into Dean. He glances over Dean’s shoulder to find a beaming Charlie, arms wide. “ _Oh, no_.”

Unphased, she steps up and throws her arms around them. Cas lets out a cute yelp, while Dean instinctively hugs him too. She grins her teeth bare. “You didn’t think we’d let them cut your honeymoon short just like that, did you?”

“Oh, if only,” Dean says. “I gotta work tomorrow.”

“Please, like you ever get more than four hours. The last of your furniture only arrived yesterday and your bed was assembled an hour ago. Kinda important, I should think.”

“Four hours?” Cas flinches.

She winks at Cas and Dean tries not to wince at her blatant lack of subtlety. Then again, Cas is kinda weird. Maybe it misses its mark. When he squirms out of her hug to grab the suitcases, the pink on Cas’ cheeks tells him otherwise.

“Let’s get you inside your new home,” Charlie smiles.

“Brother! Just in time!” 

Benny’s drawl is heavier than usual, which tells him they’ve been drinking while assembling their bed. Promising.

“For what?”

“Night cap!”

Dean oomphs slightly when Benny grabs him in a bear hug, then promptly does the same to Cas. Cas’ eyes widen, when Benny - filter- and boundary-less while tipsy, but luckily hella charming - grabs his face and plants a kiss on both cheeks. Yeah, okay, that yelp is welcome to stay, Dean thinks.

“Hey there, handsome, it’s good to see you up close.”

“Thank - you - you - too…?” Cas stutters between kisses.

He smiles tentatively at Benny and gently disengages himself, reaching for Dean. An unexpected gesture, it tugs at his heart and he answers by cupping his fingers and hooking them under Cas’. They exchange a silent glance and roll their suitcases to the side in unison. There won’t be any unpacking tonight, except for their toiletries later, when and if they get everyone out.

Dean registers many more voices than he expected and, judging by the tired sigh Cas lets out, he’s coming to a similar conclusion. Charlie’s gesturing for them to follow, Benny slipping past her. Dean gives her a ‘shoo’ gesture, because fucking hell… this isn’t what he had in mind!

“Not how I expected to explore our home for the first time,” Cas mutters, in an eerie echo of his thoughts.

“Me neither.”

They’re still holding hands, which feels odd and right at the same time. Married couple, back from their honeymoon. Suddenly the weight of expectations lands on his shoulders, his muscles locking up instantly. Lights flicker to life outside. Like a lure, they both look at them and Cas smiles. It lifts Dean’s heart and he remembers.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I… The crew helped me with the garden. Your brother put in a call. I was hoping to show you tonight. Didn’t expect it to be a full house. Probably better with people in it anyway and I’m not sure if everything’s to your taste, but…”

Cas links their fingers and pulls at him, so Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click. Rambling. Of course he is.

“You designed a garden…?” 

The sentence sounds incomplete and he has an inkling what the next words could have been.

“Yes? I hope that’s o…”

His words are cut off by a kiss.

The first genuine one since that first night, and, oh boy, he didn’t imagine how good it was, even if he got fucking carried away.

Cas is holding his face between his hands. No one’s done that before. Eyes falling shut, Dean’s arms come up and around Cas under the trench. He sighs, inhaling him the next second and, fuck, whoever _they_ are, at least they weren’t lying about Omegas and their scent. His chest aches with how much Cas affects him without realizing it. He sneaks a peek through his lashes, relieved that Cas is the type to close his eyes. Closing them again, he pulls Cas in, finding more closed-lipped kisses. When they break apart, Cas’ eyes are soft and large, even a touch sad, in the limited light, threatening to swallow him whole. He licks his lips, considering the odds of kicking everyone out and walking through their garden with Cas, foregoing sleep altogether. They stare. When did he land himself in a confusing chick flick? The ache won’t let up and he palms at his chest, trying to push it out. Breathing deep a few times, he thumbs over his shoulder awkwardly. “Wanna go check it out?”

Cas ducks his head, frowning lightly, then looks back up at him through his lashes. “Yes, I suppose. Before someone comes looking for us… Oh, look, too late. Hey, Gabe.”

They turn towards the open sliding doors - incidentally, letting in a shitload of bugs - which lead to the garden. Outlined against the light is Cas’ little brother. Well, older, but shorter. Brandishing a lollipop, _again_.

“Seriously?” Dean asks, but the remark is too vague to land.

“Lovebirds, it’s rude to ignore your guests,” Gabe says.

“Even if those guests technically invited themselves?”

“Come out here and be rude to my face, Shorty.”

Dean guffaws at the nickname, surprised Cas doesn’t even bat an eye. But he’s getting impatient about the garden, so yes, he starts to head out. The pressure on his hand increases the second they step over the threshold. Not gradually, but instant and tenfold. Dean lets him.

Cas’ jaw falls slack, his eyes wide like a child’s, at the first glimpse of night-inked, lush greenery. Dean’s heart swells with pride. The main event is the overflowing pergola, though he already forgot the name of the crawler that’s winding and twisting around its columns and arches. Something with bright blue flowers, interspersed with retro string lights. Besides everything green, they’re the connecting tissue for this garden. Leading away from the pergola is a roughly tiled pathway, lined with variously sized potted plants and herbs on either side. Off the side of the last pot, a large living bamboo archway leads to a hidden, shaded corner, sized for about, oh, let’s say, exactly two people. He opted for wild rather than pristine, which was clearly the right call.

Several of their guests comment, but none of it reaches Cas. Dean’s hunter brain registers Sam, Victor, Jo and Cas’ oldest brother in attendance, but tunes them out, enthralled with watching Cas’ response. He’s aware they’re staring, of course, because apparently that’s what everyone's doing these days, but there’s something else happening right at his fingertips and he doesn’t want to miss it. For as little as he truly knows about Cas, knowing that what he did puts that expression on Cas’ face hits with more intensity than he expected. 

Obviously, it isn’t just a garden to Dean, but suddenly it appears he may not be alone in that sentiment. Because Cas is looking at him as if he did a lot more than design a garden and he can’t put his finger on it. It seems more than he deserves for something this _simple_ , even if it is somehow important.

With a grateful sound, Cas slips out of Dean’s grasp, wandering into the garden. Yes, towards their guests, but not quite. Of all of them, only Lucifer looks _not_ confused (in fact, he rolls his eyes), when Cas bypasses them and goes exploring, inspecting the plants up close, touching leaves and booping Christmas lights and baubles, his eyes alight. 

Dean’s heart clenches, while he rubs his tingling fingertips together.

“Isn’t your smokin’ hot hubbie so thoughtful, Cassie?!” Wincing at the loud voice piping up next to him, Dean grunts when he also gets elbowed in the ribs. He smirks, seeing Cas flip the bird over his shoulder. Looking to the side, then down, he finds Gabriel grinning up at him. “That’s two you owe me, junior,” he whispers, gentler, but still hella smug.

“Two?”

“Delivered him to you at the altar, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, alright, take it down a notch, Sweets. I told him it was your idea.”

“You _told_ him? Have you no sense for deception at all?!”

He almost lets out a manic laugh at the question, but instead gestures at Cas with one hand, who vanishes into the bamboo archway, and, shit, he wants to go after him. His eyes are drawn back to the archway. Over time, it will fill out, so for now, he can see the shadow of Cas moving through it to the cosy nook at the end. Whatever he was thinking of saying is gone, because he really does want to follow him and maybe...

“Hmm, you clearly don’t.”

“What?”

“I said you clearly don’t, the way you’re making googoo eyes at Cassie. But that’s one concern settled.”

“Is it?”

“You like him.”

Dean purses his lips at Gabriel. “Is this going anywhere, Sweets?”

“And you’re handing out nicknames. I’m charmed already.”

“Yeah, so what do I call tall and glowering next to my brother over there?”

“He usually goes by Luci, Luce or big bag of dicks. Morningstar, if you need a favour, but I advise against it. Whichever you prefer, with my compliments.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re a walking, talking tripwire, aren’t you?”

Gabriel grins wide around the lollipop and pats him on the shoulder a few times, before they make their way over to the others. “It’s good to finally meet you, Dean-o. I can tell we’re all gonna be best friends.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not at each other’s throats. That’s a lotta personality in a small amount of space.”

Jo tilts her head and raises her glass at Dean, winking. “And it just doubled with your arrival, my good friend.”

“That,” Victor says. “And please, give us some credit. We all left our weapons at the door like good citizens.”

“Nothing like a good arranged marriage to take the edge off,” Lucifer smiles.

Dean narrows his eyes. Lucifer’s a wild card and, as far as the intel goes, entrenched in the Novak business: registered Alpha with a, frankly, appalling amount of leeway, primarily known for his ‘diplomatic’ work. With a mouth like that, Dean has his doubts that’s all there is to the man.

“I guess you would know a thing or two about _arrangements_.”

As exhausting as it is, it’s interesting whenever he meets another Alpha, while they’re unaware of Dean’s status. His hunter crew knows, of course, and besides Dean, Benny’s the only other Alpha. Being a turncoat vampire, Dean managed to convince Mary to use that to her advantage. The price to pay was enlistment in the Winchester pack. Benny isn’t exactly thrilled about exchanging one pair of chains for another, but he’s better off now than he was before.

Oh, and Ketch. An Alpha with a penchant for trying to upstage Dean. A _douche_. And a plant for his mother, once she noticed Dean and his crew were getting a little too tight to her liking. Can’t have your own son’s hunting party go rogue. An idea fuelled by paranoia, since it would put Benny at odds, and for all that everyone is aware of the Winchester’s one-track mindedness, most of them eat, live and breathe the life with gusto. It’s all they’ve ever known.

He recognizes some of that in the way Lucifer holds himself, though he’s sure their lives are incomparable. His is the life Dean refused.

“Hot stuff, I have experience in every department, arrangement or otherwise.”

Dean tries to keep his face straight, but fails when _next_ to Lucifer, Sam rolls his eyes and huffs hard enough for his bangs to go up. He waves his glass at Lucifer, every inch of him oozing incredulity. “Does that line _ever_ work?”

Lucifer looks as surprised as Dean feels at his brother’s easy-going sass in the face of the Morningstar, and even more so, when Lucifer doesn’t seem too put out in the way he gives Sam an amused once-over. “You’d be surprised.”

Sam beams that cheerfully sceptical smile of his. “I hope you’ve got better stuff in your arsenal than that. That reputation of yours can’t be built on one-liners.”

“Oh, cool, we’re going there?” Charlie says. “I suppose it’s easier to have it out in the open. I’m with Sam. What _is_ it you do exactly? Your files are surprisingly sparse.”

Lucifer flashes a disturbing amount of teeth, angling himself towards and over her. Sam’s hand shoots out between them reflexively. Red doesn’t so much as blink, tilting her face up towards him, all expectant curiosity and relatively innocent smiles. “Why is a local junior event manager for the city asking me this?”

He doesn’t even acknowledge Charlie blatantly admitting she hacked his files, or perhaps he assumes the Winchesters have access via other means. Or perhaps the ‘official’ files are anything but and he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Executive,” she singsongs sweetly. “I’m taking an interest in my as-good-as brother-in-law.”

“Interesting pursuits. For a mutt of a sister, I suppose.”

Charlie’s cheeks puff up as she tries not to giggle and prods Lucifer in the chest. “Oh, please… You’re not the only one with experience in every department.”

Lucifer laughs, though his eyes remain immovable, and, pointedly looking at Sam’s hand hovering near his chest, backs off. “Good to know. Now if you’ll all relax. Jeez, I’m simply here as Cassie’s doting older brother.”

“Oh, thank God,” Anna says softly. “I was wondering when you’d ease up. You’re tiring when you’re like this.”

“Ha!” Dean barks. “I knew there was a reason I forgave you for trying to drown me!”

“I did no such thing!” she protests, fake scandalized. “You tripped, you klutz.”

“He did _not_ ,” Sam says emphatically. “You pushed him.”

She shrugs delicately. “Well, he was taking Cassie from me, and look where we are now. I wasn’t wrong.”

Victor sounds like he’s choking on the handful of nuts he just popped into his mouth. It takes some help from Benny before he can speak, looking at Dean meaningfully. “How about we keep you in a life vest permanently from here on out? Just in case she decides to shove you into the canals?”

“It’s too late now,” she smiles. “They’re already married. Though… How’s your life insurance?”

“I’m sure I can take her, should it come to that,” Dean smirks. “If I can rise once, I can rise again.”

“Are you sure about that, handsome?”

“Oh, Lord,” Jo mutters under her breath and hides in her glass, downing it in one impressive go. Without a word, she gestures to Benny for a refill.

“I have an idea,” Benny says, his gestures languid in how they capture everyone in them, before he hands the bottle to Jo. “Compartmentalization. How does that sound? It will work wonders for this newly minted family.”

“That and booze,” Jo nods.

She wiggles the bottle around the group and most of them extend their glasses. Dean’s quick to grab one for himself, because this peculiar mixed company requires it.

“Now be-fucking-have,” Gabriel says, gesturing. “Our Cassie’s a sensitive soul, far removed from this kind of uncouth behaviour.”

“Growing up with you?” Jo asks. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“Nice try though,” Charlie smiles.

“You’re a fucking riot, Gabe,” Cas says, joining them.

The look he bestows Dean is pure liquid gold, for that briefest moment, which _everyone_ sees and provokes a round of boisterous comments and laughter. Dean tunes them out, because he’s too busy drowning in an ocean the colour of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to real life, bitches! Mary's not sorry. Neither is Charlie, but the motivations are very different.
> 
> Hugs from a Very Tired Dean and Cas, and me,  
> Mal


	7. Take The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at Castiel. “It shouldn’t surprise you that I work nights.”
> 
> He isn’t sure how to feel about that, but a lot gets released at those words. “All night?”
> 
> “Not necessarily. And not every night, but often enough.”
> 
> “Hunting supernatural beings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: "angst, I guess". Maybe I should turn that into a tag.
> 
> As ever, you're my touchstone, so feedback is most welcome. See if I need to dial it up ^^
> 
> Hugs and fresh, warm soup, cause winter is coming and fall is here. And some other things are still happening that may require some comfort. Hope you're doing alright, darlings, and be good to yourselves.  
> Love,  
> Mal

Perhaps Dean gave him the courtesy of time to adjust, but it’s no surprise that actual normal life has to return at some point. Regardless how strange it feels to live with a man who is lawfully his husband, who seems to dance around Castiel like he’s a floor made of lava and looked at him like a deer caught in headlights when Cas ambush-kissed him on their first night home, he appreciates Dean’s presence. He hopes that at some point they can at least be friends.

Not just happenstance participants in an arranged union.

So, very likely, his voice probably bleeds too much emotion, when Dean emerges from his - their? - room in what he can only describe as full battle gear. First thing that catches his attention is the holster around Dean’s thigh. He tilts his head and chews his lip reflexively.

“You’re going?” he squeaks.

Dean lets out a deep huff, eyes snapping up to Castiel, who’s now searching for a surface to rest his hand on. “Ahh, yeah. Work. It’s…” He messes with his sleeves, rolling them up, and frowns. “I like food.”

Castiel purses his lips at the absurd remark and shakes his head in confusion. “I gathered that much by now.”

Dean rolls his eyes lightly, though whether at Castiel or himself, he can’t tell. “I often work irregular hours,” he says. “But I would like to safeguard dinner.”

He seems to catch himself and his arms fall to his sides, a bit wider, which might have to do with a second holster underneath _all that_ , Castiel muses. Plaid, but darker. More suitable to blend in at night.

“If you’d be okay with that. Sort of ensure there is a… moment, each day…” Gaze firmly on Castiel, he trails off unsurely. An upsurge of concern has Castiel scrambling mentally to ease it, though he’s not sure if he’s interpreting Dean right.

“No - I mean - yes, of course. I like cooking. You don’t always have to cook.” Because Dean’s been doing that, though he accepted Castiel keeping him company. “Perhaps we can do that… together?”

Dean’s face opens in pure relief. “Really?” A faint dusting blooms on his cheeks, but it’s the pleased kind, not the shy one. Either works for Castiel.

“Yes, Dean, really.”

“Okay. Good… Uhhh, that’s good.” With that settled, Dean seems to slip into a part of him Castiel hasn’t seen yet. He walks over to the kitchen table and empties the pockets of his pants and shirt. Scrunched up receipts, chewing gum wrappers, a few coins. An annoyed huff escapes Castiel at the thought that Dean doesn’t empty his pockets before putting clothes in the laundry.

“Ah,” Dean hums. “There’s the little fucker.” Rubbing it clean, he holds up what looks like one or other fancy means of communication and tucks it into his ear. He looks at Castiel. “It shouldn’t surprise you that I work nights.”

He isn’t sure how to feel about that, but a lot gets released at those words. “All night?”

“Not necessarily. And not every night, but often enough.”

“Hunting supernatural beings.”

Shooting Castiel a scrutinizing look, Dean plants his feet at shoulder width and crosses his arms. No, Castiel doesn’t notice the muscles and tendons at work under his skin at all. 

Dean’s tone goes just a smidge cooler. “Yes.”

“Doesn’t being Null make that harder?”

Surprised, perhaps, at Castiel’s curiosity, he relaxes and smirks wolfishly, which, _hell_ , shouldn’t send his blood rushing in his ears. As stated before, it’s difficult to be disappointed with a man like Dean. 

“Not as much as you’d think. Scent isn’t everything.”

“Right, so I guess it’s more difficult to find you.”

“Hmm.”

Fine. Don’t tell me, he thinks. His nose wants to twitch and Castiel squints at Dean.

“Did you ever hunt angels?”

One heartbeat of hesitation, where Dean locks eyes with him. Licks his lips, before he purses them and his cheeks become dimpled annoyance. “Yes. But think hard before you ask your next question.”

Castiel harrumps, mirroring Dean’s standoffish attitude. His muscles feel stiff under the commanding tone, as if it’s out of place, unsure if Dean means to protect him or keep him in the dark.

“Did they survive?”

Inhaling long and sharp through his nose, Dean clicks his tongue while he gives a casual shrug. Clearly, hunting is his element, but the shift he’s witnessing right under his nose is so odd. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Fair question. Applicable to any species we hunt. The answer is usually down to them. Or their nature. Some of them don’t exactly know the meaning of the word ‘parlay’.” A wry smile. “So it depends on their behaviour during the chase.”

Hmm, ‘the chase’ hits with way too much appeal, his imagination running wild with _how_ exactly that looks. In the context Dean’s using it, it is likely a far cry from what his brain is coming up with.

“Question.”

“Sure,” Dean says, drawing out the one syllable, assessing him with a slowly tracked gaze.

Dean steps around the corner of the table and parks his ass on the edge of it, crossing his legs, arms at his sides. Closer to Castiel, his warmth becomes a subtle awareness. Wearing jeans accentuates the natural stance of his legs, he notices. Castiel tries to wipe the amused smile that provokes right back of his face and focus.

“Aren’t some of us supernatural by default, by our mere ability to shift?” he asks.

Dean mouths around a few words silently. “You telling me you got full shifters in the Novak ranks, Cas?”

The concept is as unbidden and strange as Dean’s tone. Fallen angel and full shifter. That would be something. Altogether. But also something the Winchesters would likely want to know. Castiel bristles.

“I don’t appreciate your tone. Or the implication that I might only be here as… what would you call it? An asset.”

_Holy… Where did that come from?_

Blunt, freckled fingers twitch and Dean’s knuckles turn white.

He holds perfectly still under Dean’s beautiful, intense, searching eyes. No one has anything on his mother when it comes to reading people with soul-burning intent, so he doesn’t even blink. That and Castiel’s stubborn. Perhaps Dean’s intent feels different.

“Would you believe me if I said I have no clue? I’m not exactly what you’d call close to the family business.”

True enough statement, but he’s no fool either. If there are full shifters among the Novak family, he’s aware they’d ping on the Winchester radar.

It takes another few moments and by this time, his heartbeat ratchets up unpleasantly. He’s angry, a touch insulted, and, absurdly _inconvenient_ , concerned Dean genuinely mistrusts him. But the mere thought is enough to upset him.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says gently, ducking his head, and just like that, the strange energy in the air is gone. “I believe you.”

“Okay,” Castiel says a little sharper than he intends. “Good.”

Dean nods a few times and hey, they went straight back to awkward waters. He resists the urge to sigh. This is going to take some getting used to.

“I’d ask when you’ll be back, but…”

A quick flash of a smile, while Dean pushes off the table and grabs his jacket from the chair. He clears away the debris he dug up, tucking the coins back in his pocket. Popping a fresh piece of gum in his mouth, he offers one to Castiel, but he refuses.

“Yeah, I have no idea. Feel free to sleep wherever you like. Our bed or the spare room. I’ll be quiet as a cat upon return.”

“Funny. Isn’t it quiet as a mouse?”

Dean makes the cutest face, as if to say ‘whatever’, and adjusts his collar. “Uhh, this also means I sleep in. Or try to. Usually don’t get more than four hours.”

“So Charlie wasn’t kidding when she said that.”

“Nope. Hope you don’t mind having quiet mornings.”

“Not at all,” he says quickly. “I’m a morning person, if my schedule isn’t messed with. But I’ll be quiet too.”

“You stick to a schedule?” Dean smiles ruefully, as if choosing to do so freely confuses him.

“Yes,” he says primly. “It’s healthy. That and I get grumpy when I don’t sleep well.”

“Jogging and sufficient sleep. Duly noted.”

Castiel smiles, despite himself and the odd vibe they’re operating under. His heart jumps in his throat when Dean looks at him. Beseeching-bemused-what _is_ it with this man? Oh. They’re getting to the part where you bid goodbye. Good night. Whichever. Castiel has trouble breathing at the thought, staring at Dean’s lips, when Dean quite suddenly and loudly claps his hands together and wants to turn to the hallway.

Castiel’s feet beat his mind to the punch. They jolt him out of his peculiar state, the first step landing his heart back where it belongs, while they quickly close the distance between him and Dean. Dean all but freezes, straightening up a bit with Castiel so close in his personal space.

He likes the mute way he seems to be able to read _some_ of Dean. His personal space is a sensitive matter, but he accepts Castiel in it nonetheless. Still largely a conundrum though, but Castiel guesses that’s part of the adventure of marriage.

“Get back home safe.”

Capturing Dean by the wrist, he kisses his cheekbone. Oh, there goes his heart again by the simple gesture of Dean closing his eyes and nudging in, a barely there headbump. When they settle, it’s Dean’s expression that skitters all over the place, its intent landing on Castiel’s mouth. Brief, but he catches it, and warmth tingles in the back of his neck when Dean licks his lips slowly.

“I’ll do my best.”

Castiel tilts his head at the answer that seems to vaguely hold the belief that his best might never be good enough. Reading too much into it, he thinks, when Dean moves away and he’s forced to let him go.

The leather jacket he throws on pulls tight across his shoulders, while he ties his laces. Sensible boots.

Castiel hugs his arms to himself, inexplicably chilly and… 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Uhm, sorry?”

“Workwise. I mean, if you want to. Not sure if you w…”

“Working?” He has trouble catching up with Dean’s train of thought. “You mean the family business? I told you, I’m not involved at Novak…”

“No. Hell, no,” he adds with a scoff, then catches himself. “Like _literally_ anything else.”

Castiel’s brain whites out. His body lurches forward with the tempting appeal of the possibilities Dean’s words so casually bring into his world. Holy shit. A married Omega, working in anything _but_ the family business? Hell, working at all.

“YES,” he blurts out, taken aback by his own greedy confirmation, then makes a helpless face at Dean. “As long as you have absolutely no immediate follow-up questions right now, because I think you just fried my brain.”

Dean’s smile is warm. Soft. Almost grateful.

“Need help resuscitating it?”

He narrows his eyes, an accusation in his expression, surely, by the way Dean grins wider, looking very playful for someone who’s about to go out hunting. And someone who didn’t kiss him back.

“Not helping.”

“Give it some thought, alright? Studies. Work. Whatever you want.”

He winks brazenly, but there’s something infinitely more fragile shimmering just under the surface. Then there’s the sound of keys, his back turned, and his husband is gone.

Castiel sleeps in their bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't get seasick, cause these two are gonna be doing this wave thing while they figure out if they can trust each other and what their families are trying to get out of this. Dreams incoming soon!
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal


	8. Zephyros's Enlightening Anemos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re flying.

He’s running-running-running through the unknown. A blur of trees and shrubs, coated in the darkening layer of nighttime, everything from majestic blue to deep purple. Laced with moonlight. Suddenly the sound of paws thudding onto the soil is replaced with the wind blowing in his ears. Jumping through the air, his heart goes along with it, the inky forest replaced with an endless sea of stars, sparks flying with every bounding step. He laughs. This is new. He glances around, soaking up the view. Igniting constellations, the vibrations he creates travel the stardust. Nebulous fireworks make him squint, their energy loud, despite there not being so much as a whispered sound. He runs faster, inhaling life and exhaling ozone. Catches the scent of possibility. Of chance. Luck.

Prey.

He grins, bouncing off a supernova which bursts in his wake, and lands across galaxies, their swirls and parts bending like leaves, breaking like twigs. Speeding up, his muscles flex, hurtling him forward faster. It is good to run once more. Hunt. Blood red paints the universes, splattering everywhere. His heart is fit to burst. Skin pulls tight across his shoulder blades, pain spiking through, but for just a moment and suddenly he isn’t running.

They’re flying.

The muscles in his back work differently. Stronger than anything he’s ever felt, they carry him up into the sun and over, cresting fearlessly towards a returned horizon of star-dappled endless leaves. He reaches out with his hands to touch the canopy. It roils and writhes as if it’s alive, wildflowers breaking through like dolphins, until some come into inexplicable focus. He knows them, as intimately as old friends. Bachelor buttons unfurl, almost reaching for him. The scent of gardenias overwrites everything else, a physical caress to his naked skin. Huge black dahlias pop up, their bed-sized cupped petals tempting and soft. Yellow, red and white snapdragons crest up and sway, carving a double hedge he funnels through, his wings folding around him as he goes. They spread with a loud whoosh when he curves around hovering blue angels and perches there, overlooking the endless sea of brightly coloured green canopy.

He laughs again, chest expanding, and breathes in with his eyes closed. Another laugh. That wasn't his. Shaking his head, he looks towards the sound, but finds no one for miles. Endless views of starry canopy and living flowers. Yet he feels that he isn't alone. Reassuring sentiment, he bows his head and mumbles. Unfamiliar sounds dance and float, pulling colours to them that pop on the air.

He glances again, because he is so sure. Overhead one flash of lightning shatters the skies. When it hits, the universe he is in shudders, endless vibrations coursing through him. 

An echoing, warning rumble travels up from the invisible soil. From the earth itself, rising up to meet the energy. Lifting his face to the skies, he closes his eyes, waiting for rain.

Instead his body convulses and twitches, and he all but falls off his perch if it wasn't for their wings. He tumbles forward and slides onto all fours, claws finding an easy grip. Wings flare to steady them.

Red meets gold in a mirroring surface of water.

Right beside each other. Tangible if they lean towards, whiskers and feathers aquiver.

"Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same."

The eyes are all they see at first. Eyes. Claws. Wings.

"I like what you've done with the place."

"Isn't it yours?"

"Not sure. It should be either or."

"Feels like something else."

"Perhaps we collided."

"If we did, I like the result."

They sit in silence, the wind playing with fur and wings alike.

"Hey, Alpha, look..."

"Alpha?"

"You are, right? I mean, your eyes…"

"You can see those?"

"... Yes?"

"So those wings are real too?"

"As real as anything in the dream world, I guess."

"Why can't I see your face then, Angel?"

"I… don't know."

"What did you want to say?"

"There. The colours."

They look to the horizon together. The sun starts to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First dream! As you can tell, these won't abide by any known laws, and can get weird. (There is a tiny crack warning somewhere in the tags.) Some are remnants of my own dreams, some are just my brain going 'sure'.
> 
> Title is the song [Zephyros's Enlightening Anemos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNupNe8addY) by Daemonia Nymphe. Lyrics can be found in ancient Greek, which I don't read very well. These are primarily gut choices, guided by limited understanding of a few words here and there.
> 
> Love, as ever,  
> Mal


	9. Forget The Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes sure not to blink, when Cas looks at him expectantly. He scratches at his bare stomach drowsily. As the silence lingers, he sips his coffee, Cas’ eyes narrowing further with every audible gulp.
> 
> “You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title for this chapter and several next ones is [I Forget The Words](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qaBcgf_RYPk). Interspersing dreams have their own songs.
> 
> I did promise an owl.
> 
> Love,  
> Mal

Dean takes it back. 

Cas is as talkative as ever, even first thing in the morning, which today for Dean means at 10AM, while he’s sitting at their kitchen island with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Cas is making them waffle breakfast sandwiches, which holds his sensory attention to such an extent that the word sounds aren’t really sinking in. They’re important though and his hunter brain, bless it, is retaining the crucial ones: thinking what you said - ecological footprint - that stone formation - what you think?

Uhhh. Shit. Well… Mostly crucial?

Dean makes sure not to blink, when Cas looks at him expectantly. He scratches at his bare stomach drowsily. As the silence lingers, he sips his coffee, Cas’ eyes narrowing further with every audible gulp.

“You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?”

“Lemme put it this way,” he mutters, voice sleep-heavy. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Cas rolls his eyes, a mild annoyance cutting through his scent. He rubs his forehead, eyes closed for a moment, as he wills himself to stop picking up on that. “I am older than you, you know. And what does that have to do with anything I just said?”

Giving Cas a snoozy smile, he raises his hand, lifting his index finger. “One, simple fact. I don’t make the rules.” Something sweet, like fresh pie filling, softens his fragrance. Oh, well. Then he adds a second finger, forming the peace sign. “Bee, too damn early for so many words, sweetheart.”

Cas is muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘angry bear’.

“Consider yourself lucky too,” he says, as he plonks down a plate with two waffle sandwiches, enough bacon, eggs and cheese involved to push them into cartoon sandwich territory. “ _‘Sweetheart’’_ landed just the right side of charming country boy acceptable.”

He almost snorts his coffee up through his nose and gets stinging eyes for his effort to prevent that.

“ _Country boy_?” he squeaks.

Cas smiles at him, sugary sweet, while he sits down beside him. “Please, your side of the church wore so much plaid, you may as well be.”

All Dean can wonder is _how_ Cas knows. The Winchester origins aren’t exactly common knowledge. You can take the boy out of the country, but you surely can’t take the plaid out of his closet, unless the boy comes with it. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

“I notice you’re not objecting to the charming part.” 

Cas plants a soft kiss on Dean’s shoulder, one he turns towards to find the details of his face. Dark lashes lowered, his lips connecting with Dean’s freckles in a few butterfly kisses that hitch his breath. How he shyly ducks his head on the way out of Dean’s personal space. And he starts _talking_ again. 

“I think I want to go back to college,” he starts.

His brain groaning under the strain of his coffee not kicking in yet and something else confusing he doesn’t have any space for, Dean chases him, lips first catching on the blush on Cas’ cheekbone, then that beautiful mouth. Cas yelps when Dean kisses him and he stays there for a while, reduced to soft nose and nudges. There’s a sharp edge to Cas’ fond glare, when Dean separates from him, as he licks his lips.

“Coffee and food first. All ears after, _I promise_.”

Snorting softly, Cas turns to his food with a muttered ‘fine, be grumpy’. They share a quiet breakfast, Cas persistently nudging their knees together.

*

Castiel inches backwards in search of Dean’s warmth, whenever he enters Castiel’s orbit. Dinnertime is quickly evolving into a favorite part of his day. Having barely cooked a meal in his life, he enjoys these moments where they feel at their most normal. It pays to focus on that, when his dreams of late have been so… intense. Running into an unknown dreamwalker haphazardly is unsettling. He even steers clear of his own relatives, let alone strangers. To all but stumble into an Alpha’s dreams is downright dangerous, even if the soul seemed kind, and suggests carelessness or ignorance on their part. He’s been trying not to think about it too much. No point, he tells himself. Foolish.

This makes it easier. Dean loves to cook and takes a smooth, easy command of the kitchen. And Castiel. The by now familiar voice floats at his ear, clearly used to being obeyed. “Can you turn the pointed sweet peppers into crescents and the courgettes into cubes?”

He tilts back on his heels, smiling when they touch. “Of course.”

Their kitchen isn’t huge in terms of manoeuvring and the ease with which Dean's body makes contact with his is heartwarming. Firm touches and squeezes, signalling intent or direction, at his hips and shoulders. Not exactly one to roll over, Castiel still moves with the quiet instructions, their exchanges more often happening without words.

He hisses when the distraction of Dean’s physical proximity at his back almost makes him do a dumb.

“Careful now,” Dean says, eyes lighting up over the slant of Castiel’s shoulder. He moves to the stove, mincing garlic in with the onions.

“Like you wouldn’t do a better job than your average doctor if I happen to cut my finger.”

“I would. Doesn’t mean I wanna see you bleed to prove that particular skill.”

“Aww, bet you’d leave me with barely a scar at all.”

“Scars? What kind of knife do you think you’re handling? Do I need to take over cutting duties and put you to work at the stove?”

“You can put me to work wherever you please.”

He stiffens slightly at how that sounds, but returns the easygoing grin Dean gives him, eyes squinting as if he’s trying to figure Castiel out. “Looks good from where I’m standing.”

“Are you leaving tonight?”

“Nope. All yours.”

Castiel hums softly at the sound of that and smiles when Dean’s humming along to the radio. One of Dean’s classic rock stations, which he tends to turn on the moment he gets home. Not his usual fare, but he prefers using his headphones anyway to block out any additional sound. Dean clears his throat.

"Hey, uhh, I've been meaning to ask you.."

"Hmm?"

"You… uhh, your.. Ah, hell, I mean, heck… Uhmm."

Castiel glances at Dean curiously at the amount of unfinished words and stuttering. "Take a breath maybe. It tends to help with the speaking. Oxygen to the brain."

"If only that were true," Dean huffs. "I ain't too good with words, especially…"

"Okay," he laughs. "Now I'm curious! Tell me. I promise I won't bite, unless you want me to."

Oh. When did he lose his filter? Gabe would be proud of that. He pouts a bit, when it seems to miss its mark by a few wingspans, because Dean remains oddly stoic. Or at least he doesn’t respond in a way Castiel can make out.

"I mean," he says pointedly, avoiding Castiel's gaze. "Your… your heats?"

A soft ringing in his ears numbs the sizzling of the garlicked onion in the pan and the steady slide-crunch of the knife on the board. This time he doesn't miss.

"Ouch!" He drops the knife and cradles his hand, bright red pearls welling up.

"Goddamnit…" Dean tears a piece of kitchen paper off the wall-mounted roll.

"It's fine!"

"My bad, Cas, shit, I'm sorry…"

He steps back and bumps into Dean, whose arms come around him. "Dean, it's okay."

Snorting softly, Dean grabs his hand with more care than a teensie cut like this necessitates and presses the paper to the wound, where it soaks up bright red. Still he lets it happen, because it brings Dean in close and that seems to have become one of his favourite things. Even while they're being awkward, he likes to be in Dean’s personal space. They don’t do enough of this. Not the way he hoped a married couple would.

With quiet focus, Dean stems the blood, which really doesn't take that long, and examines the cut. "Here is the good news."

"What's that?"

"You won't need stitches." Castiel smiles softly and wider, when Dean looks at him helplessly. "Sorry about that. I didn't… I have no clue how to talk about it."

"Heats?" Castiel echoes, trying not to grin.

How delightful it is to watch Dean blush, while he ducks his head.

"Yeah, that," he says with a frown.

He considers it for a moment, in truth, out of his depth as well. The answer is simple, but the implications a lot less so. Perhaps it is for the best to choose the former.

"I'm on the pill. It's nothing you need to worry about."

Dean's frown deepens and dimples adorn his cheeks. "Okay. Let me go get the medkit."

He considers telling him his heats going unresolved isn’t that bad, suddenly insecure about the answer, because Dean looks… something. Disappointed? Resigned? Before he can try to read him, Dean turns away. They have several emergency kits, as one would expect of someone in Dean's line of work. So far they haven’t had to use one. 

The idea sparks lightly, like a tiny bath bomb, as he reaches out across the perceived longer distance. Perhaps he is imagining them growing closer altogether and that distance is the same as ever.

"Can we eat in the cubbyhole?"

It’s what he dubbed their little nook at the end of the archway. Most days, when they eat outside, they use the furniture, but on some days, he prefers the intimacy of that little enclosure.

"Of course, Cas. It's looking like a clear night." He rummages through the kit and makes his way back over with antiseptic and a bandaid.

Castiel sighs softly when Dean disinfects the wound and it stings a little. The good kind.

"There," he says. "Patched up. I thought you were joking."

"Thank you, Dean. I wasn't even trying."

"That makes it worse. Let me take over the cutting."

He laughs and pushes gently at Dean's chest. "Don't overdo it, sunshine."

Dean purses his lips, eyes flashing with interesting intent as they fall to Castiel's hand resting over his heart and he barely budges. "Sure."

A stray thought hits. For all his proclivities, strange dreams and behaviour, perhaps he should count his lucky stars they’re getting along as well as they are. Maybe there is an upside to Dean being Null after all and not picking up on any of this. As far as he understands them, no Alpha would stand for it. So why does it all feel so easy and out of step and like it’ll never be enough at the same time?

They return to their cooking routine.

"By the way," Castiel says. "I think an owl has decided our garden is his home."

"An owl…?"

"Yes. I've noticed the same owl perched on the pergola a few days in a row now."

"This isn't exactly an area for wildlife, you know, except for rats and rats with wings."

"Pigeons. Pig-eons."

"That ain't how you pronounce that, Cas."

He snickers. "I’m trying to figure out which species it is."

Dean huffs, accepting the cutting board from him and sliding the vegetables into the pan. "Let me guess… so you can figure out what to feed it?"

"Him. Feed him."

"You checked?" 

"Not yet," Castiel bites with a tease. "You'll name your car and killer plants, but refuse to see animals…"

"Well, genders are overrated."

"Be that as it may, I'd like to figure out his species. Maybe check if he's ringed."

"Aren't owls usually carnivores?"

"I think so?"

"We can test it in a bit."

"Hmm?"

"I'll take some ham out, if you like."

"Yes! And I can name him."

Dean laughs hopelessly, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Of course."


	10. Enchanting Oneiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wanders through the various planes. He knows he’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are shorter. Because they're a bit of a trip sometimes and I don't want to drag them out. Hope you don't feel short-changed. They're leading somewhere.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are, whatever that means during covid, (mainly not what it means historically). I hope you and yours are safe and loved.
> 
> Title song is [Enchanting Oneiro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxDXF8b6Ong) by Daemonia Nymphe, 'oneiro' meaning 'dream'.
> 
> Hope you and yours are doing well.  
> Love,  
> Mal

Castiel wanders through the various planes. He knows he’s alone. Alone, as in, wandering through the planes of existence, sometimes passing by someone else’s dream, catching whiffs and snippets. Impressions that bend time and space. He holds his own bubble safely, a starry sky overhead. Melding on the dream plane is a unique experience, usually reserved for dreamwalkers like himself, but he’s read enough about the theoretics to know that melding lends a peculiar layer to any dream.

They’re strange either way, but to mesh one’s mind, at once so detached from its body and vulnerable _out here_ , with another’s is often described as out of this world. The Novaks frown upon doing so with anything but another dreamwalker. They tend to use it to worm their ways into people’s private thoughts and gain leverage. It is probably a good thing it requires practice, magical items and deeply personal information in order to do so successfully. Lucifer’s exceptionally good at it and used to scare the shit out of him and Gabe when they were kids, relishing how he could bend his younger brothers’ dreams into nightmares. Castiel quickly learned how to protect himself and Gabe, when he proved less adept at it. Since then, Lucifer has grown up. Somewhat. He doesn’t envy anyone whom Luci sets his sights on. Not with his penchant for the dark and murky, for that which moves in the shadows and rides your spine without ever showing itself.

His family frowns upon many a thing. To have a dreammeld happen to him so unexpectedly and with such grace is a gift of the universe. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks or says, which is why he cherishes it as something for only himself and goes to sleep with the set intention of finding the other dreamwalker again.

Alas, with what little he knows, the Alpha remains elusive for nights on end. Granted, he never tried this before, never had any reason to, but the potential of it is too beautiful to pass up. So he flies around from dream to dream, meandering through pockets of topsy-turvy whimsy. On the way, he can’t resist easing a few nightmares, touching their little bubble with gentle intent. He resides on the dream plane and shapes the world to his liking. He loves mixing the elements together and blowing them beyond proportion, their details large enough to swallow him whole. His feet dangle in an ocean of stars, warm and soothing. Little fish, like Cleo, swim around him, their translucent fins and tails shimmering in the moonlight. The sound of owls hooting has him looking up, where a huge Pandora flies. So _that’s_ her name.


	11. We Are Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're supposed to be at class."
> 
> "My first period got cancelled, but I was up so I went for a run and decided to take a bath." He gestures vaguely around himself. There is an almost comical pile of foam hiding most of him from view, the heap at chest height losing its shape.
> 
> Dean cocks his head. "Is that an owl?"

Dean stumbles inside their home, stifling a yawn and inhales deeply. It's only been a few weeks, but the place is already steeped in their scent. Primarily Cas', of course. He isn't sure he remembers what his own scent is like, to be honest. Pure, that is, without the interference of medication. But Cas… Hell. He's still unable to define the specifics, but he is hooked. It is almost unfair how easily that part of their biology works, but perhaps he should have known. Instinct extends much further than the hunt, despite what his parents tried to teach him and Sam.

Last night's mission took much longer than anticipated. Three man crew turned out a bit too tight. After, Benny and Victor conned him into a few drinks, because of how close a shave it had been.

He needs a shower. The gore levels have been worse, but the luxury of a shower never goes amiss. Or a bath.

He dumps his bag on the table and checks the college schedule, stuck to the fridge with a bee magnet. Glancing at his watch, he estimates Cas should be at college about now, his class ‘Environmental Justice and World Literature’ starting in ten. That gives Dean time to soak, run laundry and avoid his phone like it has a virus, lest his mother get any ideas. Maybe see if he can get a daylight picture of Pandora to figure out the species. Cas forbade him to take one with a flash, in case he chased the animal away.

He peels off the plaid and his shirt, tossing both down the hall towards the laundry room and goes ‘yes’ when it lands just the right side of the tiled floor with a disgusting little wet sound. He's halfway through unbuckling his belt when he walks into the bathroom. The sound of frantically splashing water and a high-pitched yelp pulls him from his drowsy state.

"Dean!"

Cas' phone clatters to the towel on the floor, pulling the ear buds along. Dean freezes with his hand on the door handle.

"Cas?" he says dumbly. 

Fingers curled around the edges of the Victorian enamel bathtub, Cas stares at him. Not uncomfortable, but surprise telltale in every muscle. They have been respecting each other's space. Or Dean has been maintaining a sensible distance ever since the honeymoon. Bathroom use is private, so he can handle his meds. They don't always sleep in the same bed either, because he noticed Cas is a light sleeper. Somehow, no matter how quiet Dean is, Cas fusses and squirms every time Dean joins. As cute as it is, he feels bad about it so he sleeps in the spare room, especially on college nights.

Cas makes a face at him. "Who else were you expecting?"

Dean splutters. "No one at all. You're supposed to be at class."

"My first period got cancelled, but I was up so I went for a run and decided to take a bath." He gestures vaguely around himself. There is an almost comical pile of foam hiding most of him from view, the heap at chest height losing its shape.

Dean cocks his head. "Is that an owl?"

"Hey, you can tell? I did something right. It's Pandora."

"Sorta, I guess," he smiles.

"I'm glad you're home."

That is unexpected and maybe it's the hot water clouding up the air, but he can taste the worry. Hunts in general, but especially like last night, don't usually allow for easy communication. Hell, he's never had to take loved ones into account, beyond the people on the hunt with him. No need for texting his ETAs or status updates. Cas doesn't know the life, but he's forced to live it now.

"Fuck."

"It's fine. You warned me in advance."

He tries not to pick up more than he should, but Cas smells unpleasantly vulnerable. Briefly he wonders if it's being naked around Dean, but the way both his legs are dangling over the edge, toes wiggling, he guesses that is a 'no'. His eyes search Dean, that sad droop making it worse. Dean clears his throat, breaking the spell, and an idea forms, though it serves perhaps more to soothe himself than Cas, if he's reading him wrong.

"Uhm… May I?"

Cas' lips part in surprise and he nods, though he can't really know what Dean means. He walks to the tub, folding his hand over the edge. It's a blessing Cas is who he is, his scent pulling at Dean beautifully and soaking up his every focus, so his brain can't butt in. He slides his hand to Cas' cheek and steals a closed-lipped kiss. Senses the smile that forms under the touch and mirrors it, his muscles easing up from the simple gesture.

"You smell like burning," Cas mutters. 

"Hmm," he amends with no intention to clarify which part of their routine explains that scent. "I am in need of a shower."

He looks at Cas, hair darker and plastered to his forehead, and sees the suggestion in those twinkling blues. Works his tongue in his mouth around a chuffed laugh.

"Don't you have class to get to?"

"I guess it would be bad form to say I'm willing to skip if you're joining me?"

Dean allows himself the grin that forms. "You hardly seem like the skipping type."

Cas snorts and kisses him again, their lips catching. "Only for very good reasons."

His husband is a flirt. An awkward flirt to boot and Dean has trouble forgetting that duality, whenever he gets like this. Because if he were to fully play along, he is sure they'll land themselves in familiar waters as before, pun intended. So he plants another kiss and straightens back up.

"As your husband, I think I'm supposed to prevent self sabotaging."

"Right," Cas pouts.

Dean laughs and turns away, before the sight can draw him back in. The mirror reminds him why he needed a bath and he casts a surprised look at Cas. Why the hell doesn't this amount of muck and blood freak him out?

He sneaks a look when the sound of sloshing water chases the thoughts. For a moment, he contemplates playing along after all, but Cas’ form is wrapped in a large, dark green towel soon enough, removing the temptation. That, and while he smells like ‘burning’, he needs that shower, his meds and his blockers.

Now Cas gets all cute and awkward again. Legs splayed wide in the tub, he’ll coax Dean into something, but moving around each other in the bathroom has him looking all flustered. Such a strange specimen.

He refuses to inhale the subtleties at play. But he’s already half naked and he isn’t sure how it’s gonna go if he peels off more layers, so now he’s just standing there, alongside Cas who is drying off, while the tub makes gurgling noises. Christ.

“Environmental Justice and Literature?”

“Yes! I’m sad that it got cancelled. I was really curious what it entails.”

“Like entirely cancelled or just this class?” 

“Just this class. But I want to know.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re curious.”

“There are a lot of ‘environmentals’ on your schedule. I guess I didn’t expect that one?”

“Me neither. It’s great! I’m bringing back books and courses and notes for all of them,” Cas says. “And I’ll happily share.”

He’s almost beaming and, in his enthusiasm, lets go of his shyness. The towel falls away. Dean keeps his eyes firmly on Cas’ face (rather than the miles of smooth skin… almost, okay, almost), but he’s sure they go blankish for a few heartbeats while he tries to balance a naked Cas with the offer of environmental education. He blinks when Cas steps into a pair of bright orange boxers.

“Sure. Sure thing, Cas, I’d love to hear. Besides,” he says, gaze caught on the damp spots forming on Cas’ back when the shirt settles. “I don’t think I could stop you.”

Cas makes a face at him over his shoulder, as he grabs his other clothes. “Watch you hate the silence the second I’m gone, handsome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smirks* 
> 
> Though I have to admit that last line reads different now post-ending than it did when I wrote it the first time around. Ahem.
> 
> If you're here for these two, thanks for joining. As ever, hope you and yours are well.  
> Love,  
> Mal


	12. Selene's Awakening Horos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Angel?” A heartbeat of silence and a laugh. “You’re here again!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgqOIchruR4), again by Daemonia Nymphe. The vibe just sat right with me for the dreams. Hopin' I don't run out of finding other gems. Open to suggestions for dream-vibe songs.
> 
> Hope you're all safe and sound.
> 
> Love,  
> Mal

Dean is flying again and it looks like the same forest as last time. The live one with its wild array of flowers, except this time he is below the canopy. His surroundings are thick as syrup and yet he can move like a knife through warm butter the colour of liquid gold. Everything smells like a Sunday pancake breakfast, which, frankly, is weird. That and he isn’t looking through human eyes.

Nor is he alone.

Difficult to say, but a sense of wonder courses through him that ain’t his own. Every tilt, every turn jolts up energy, his stomach stuck in an endless flip. With glee, he switches between flying and bouncing off the trees that bend and groan under his weight, his clawed paws sinking in without doing any damage.

Strange. The feather limbs melt into his body whenever he is running on four legs, but reappear with every leap, as if he’s flitting between two forms. When he scales a small body of water, hovering on the wind, he catches sight of himself in a blur of fur and feathers. He’s got a long-ass tail!

Then he spots a shadow. Sort of. An Other, but familiar. Are the wings even his own? He sniffs and flips around, staring at their reflection in the water upside down. His tongue lolls out, when he recognizes the black of those wings.

“Angel?” A heartbeat of silence and a laugh. “You’re here again!”

And suddenly they unfold from each other and his stowaway is on his back, hands buried in his fur, thighs clenching on his flanks with a touch of panic to them.

*

“Alpha?”

Castiel’s body moves with his mount’s a lot smoother than he expected, though, suddenly being wingless this time around, his fear of falling off is considerable. Because this creature between his legs, entirely different from what he met the first time around, is incredibly fast and strong, bouncing from cloud to cloud. Whenever they’re not in use, the wings fold to either side as if they’re protecting him.

“Oh, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. 

He casts a look to both sides and over his shoulder to a blend of copper and blue feathers with silver specks. He runs his fingers through the fur in the back of this Alpha’s neck, coarse at first, but exquisitely soft when he digs deeper. A low purr floats over to him, as he dares trail one hand over a wing. Peacock feathers in the tail, but the wings, they look like fire. The purr extends to a constant rumble that vibrates through him.

Spurred on by Castiel’s reaction, Alpha speeds up, and he yelps, clutching on tight. “Careful! I don’t have my wings!”

“I noticed,” Alpha laughs. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know and I,” his voice shoots up with the sudden rollercoaster dive they take, “am not used to it!”

“I got you, Angel, no worries.”


	13. The Wine We Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is the status on the Harvelle-Mills compound?” Naomi asks.
> 
> “Community,” Crowley corrects her fearlessly, hovering the bottle over Castiel’s glass in mute question. He refuses curtly. Dean doesn’t, though he’s slow to nurse the drink. Castiel guesses it isn’t his regular taste. “It’s a community."
> 
> "Harvelle?" Dean interjects. "Ellen?"

“Anything’s considered family these days,” Gabriel sniffs, when he takes his place at the dinner table. He finds Castiel and they exchange one of those brotherly looks, which fools exactly no one.

“You’re late, darlin,” Crowley smirks.

Their mother lets out an involuntary sound of approval at not having to point out the obvious herself, while Crowley refills her glass. The man disconcerts Castiel, mainly because - and this is his upbringing speaking - he’s unsure where his loyalties, if any, lie. Besides with his own best interests.

Hypocrite, he thinks, realizing it’s all his family’s ever done, even when he doesn’t know the half of it. Birds of a feather.

“What is the status on the Harvelle-Mills compound?” Naomi asks.

“Community,” Crowley corrects her fearlessly, hovering the bottle over Castiel’s glass in mute question. He refuses curtly. Dean doesn’t, though he’s slow to nurse the drink. Castiel guesses it isn’t his regular taste. “It’s a community."

"Harvelle?" Dean interjects. "Ellen?"

"The very same," Crowley says.

"The owner of The Roadhouse," Castiel says, realizing why the hair at the back of his neck is pricking.

"Yeah. It's just a diner. Bar. Why are you looking into her?"

"Figures you'd know them," his mother smiles.

"Hell yeah, her daughter is on my crew. But you know that, right?" That peculiar smile on her face, Naomi turns towards Dean minutely. "There ain't anything there for you to find. Honest people, making an honest buck."

Naomi laughs softly. "Oh, please, your family doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"You're mixing up the families there, sugar," Dean smirks, clearly loving how Naomi's eyes flash at the moniker. Castiel squeezes Dean’s thigh so hard, his nails dig in, but their mother barely blinks.

"Shouldn't you be out running that errand for me, Dean? That is, if your family ever hopes to get what they want."

Dean blanches, a subtle body language ripple Castiel pegs, and his eyes flick to him for a heartbeat before he looks back to Naomi. "Wouldn't wanna miss the family dinner." He nods at Crowley, almost in an order. "By all means, Crowley, continue..."

Crowley sighs dramatically. "I hate to say this in front of him, but the boy is right. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Nomes.”

“Reconsider the use of the nickname,” his mother says primly.

“But you loved it once. And excuse me, but his 'sugar' gets a pass?"

Gabriel snorts up wine, reaching for the cloth napkin tucked next to his plate. “I knew it! Cough up, Cassie.”

“Oh, please,” Lucifer huffs. “We all knew it. Was hard to fucking miss it after dad died.”

“Then that was a rigged bet,” Castiel protests. “Typical.”

Lucifer has been unusually quiet so far. Castiel suspects he fucked up one or another assignment, frowning when he considers the potential specifics of said assignment. Lucifer rarely fails, because they all know what happens when you fail Naomi Novak. His mother silences Lucifer with one sharp look and his brother goes back to chasing his unfinished meal around his plate. Next to Castiel, Dean shifts as if the sentiment was meant for him. Castiel reaches for his hand and mentally sighs when Dean doesn’t pull away. His mother’s pale eyes briefly track the gesture, but she dismisses it in the same heartbeat.

For all their awkwardness around each other, he and Dean agreed they needed to make it look as if everything was alright. Neither of them wanted to return to their families and if the safety of their marriage provided that, even when less than stellar, they’ll protect it.

“Are you done, boys? You’re making your mother uncomfortable.” He shows no sign of shame at having brought up the subject himself.

“Hardly,” Naomi sighs. She seems to consider herself for a moment, regarding Dean heavily. “Update, Crowley, while we’re on the matter.”

Casting a glance sideways at Dean, he finds his husband’s face unreadable and guarded, focused on his food. Until he senses Castiel’s gaze and sends him a cute wink, his freckles dancing. His hair’s a fluffy mess, which was Castiel’s decision when Dean asked his opinion. The scruff he’s grown since their wedding is trimmed and adds a few years to him, putting him closer to Castiel.

Castiel is surprised business is allowed during what, for all intents and purposes, is an informal family dinner. Likely an obligatory nuisance from here on out, but, he finds, an easier one to deal with than living here. Perhaps she’s making a point to Dean and, via him, to the Winchesters. Trust. Or power. Who knows? He frowns, the back of his head thrumming with the hint of an impending headache.

“You’re no fun anymore,” Crowley sighs dramatically. “As I said, a community.”

“So no signs of anything untoward?”

“Oh, signs aplenty. All of the untoward things you can bloody expect of a band of run-aways, who refuse to abide by rules with ties to a hole-in-the-wall bar. No sense of decency and all that -” He leers around the table, as if checking whose brain goes off the rails. Castiel pointedly stares at his glass, wiggling his fingers against Dean’s thigh and smiles softly when the pressure is returned with a warm hand enveloping his. He doubts they’re in a similar mindset, but it’s sweet all the same. “Except the ones you’re _looking_ for.”

“I’m starting to wonder why I pay you.”

"Damn straight," Dean says. "The Roadhouse is a lotta things, but a hole-in-the-wall bar ain't it. Sounds like reassignment for you, Crows."

“You wish, Squirrel," Crowley bites, grinning when the nickname provokes a scowl from Dean. "I am paid for my vast collection of magical relics as well as much-needed knowledge there-of. My charm is an added bonus.”

“Hmm, yes. I’d say ‘dismissed’, but… alas.”

“Smashing food, as ever,” Crowley grins.

*

The urge to get out became palpable well before dinner was over, but there are traditions to uphold. The three course meal. Omegas and Betas handling the clean-up in the kitchen, while the Alphas have their smoke and drink in the den. That visibly pissed off Dean and confused more than a few of them, when Naomi made it clear that, as head of house, even a Null is supposed to join her and Lucifer, successfully forcing them apart in the one place Castiel would want to avoid that.

Not only that, but Crowley trails after them as if to keep an eye on rowdy, little children, ensuring they do the dishes right. He swirls his glass of bourbon, while opening the kitchen door to the garden. "Lovely night out."

Castiel squints, but Gabe nudges him in the ribs and shoves a towel in his hands.

"Just ignore the man, Cassie, and let's get this over with so we can all go home. Can’t wait to be done with college so I don’t owe her anymore."

Gabe chugs his own glass of whiskey, which he poured under mother's disapproving gaze.

"I wish I could. I can smell his cologne from all the way over there. I hate this," he hums, when Gabe waves a wet plate under his nose.

"You would," Crowley says idly. 

"Why are you here?" Gabe snaps at the man. "You're mother's guest. That makes you exempt from duty."

"Do you see me lifting a finger?"

Castiel and Gabe exchange a look and roll their eyes in unison. "Point taken."

They work together like a well-oiled machine, which makes Gabe grin. "I don't think we were ever this efficient as kids."

"That's because your sole purpose in life was to annoy the fuck out of me."

"Language, Shorty," Gabe chides. "And it most certainly was not."

Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him, slapping the damp towel to Gabe's thigh. "No, you're right. It was to annoy everyone. Cause you don't discriminate."

"Exactly. Hey, _Crows_! While you're here, refill the glass for the workforce, will ya?"

Crowley looks unimpressed but obliges, refilling his own glass in the process. Castiel shakes his head when he wiggles the bottle in question.

"Thanks."

"Welcome." Crowley lifts his glass and steps outside.

"Why is he here?" Castiel whispers.

"You're asking the Beta? I don't know. Maybe he actually prefers not to be around mother after three courses of her zen personality, combined with Dean's."

"Hey, Dean did nothing wrong."

"He doesn't exactly know how to shut up either."

"Funny coming from you."

"Sure, chatterbox."

Castiel bumps into his shoulder, thoughts foggy with the effect of the evening. "They better not be ganging up on him."

Gabe makes a visible effort to control his face.

"What?" Castiel sighs.

"Maybe it's business."

He almost drops the plate, clutching it to his chest where it gets his shirt wet.

"What?” Gabe shrugs innocently. “It could be. She said as much and he got hella uncomfortable. Don't tell me you missed that."

"I didn't." Castiel can tell his face falls. "But I don't want it to be."

"Yes, well, what you want is hardly mother's priority, is it? Or she wouldn't have hooked you up with the dude in the first place."

"Gabe! It.. no. No!" He shakes his head, setting the plate on the counter. "It can't be just that. He is actually kind."

Returning inside, Crowley snorts softly. He smiles thinly at Gabriel while he sets his empty glass down for him.

"Are you here to spy?" Castiel snarls. "Cause I don't know anything about the Winchesters. Dean and I don't talk about work."

They don't talk much at all, not about anything that matters. That is a vague gut feeling kind of assessment, because he feels constantly… hungry. For all the food they cook and consume together, something keeps nagging at him. He reminds himself again to count his lucky stars.

"No, darling," Crowley says with a shrug. "But my two cents… Kindness doesn't equal anything. Dean is a hunter through and through."

"Right," Castiel says. "Just like I'm a Novak through and through?"

"Oh, hush. I regret bringing it up," Gabe huffs. "How is college going?"

"You're in college?" Crowley asks.

"I am. Dean asked me what I want to do."

"Huh… Who knew the Squirrel has balls."

"You're a tiring man, Crowley."

"Oh, I'm aware. So how _is_ college going?"

"Okay," he says, unwilling to share much. "It's pleasant to meet people, though I'm not very good at making friends."

"You'll be okay, Cassie, but I'm glad you're doing the thing."

Crowley smirks, as he makes to leave. "Wait until your uncle Zach hears about that."

He groans at the mere thought.

*

Castiel gets his husband back without so much as a scratch. His eyes, Castiel's barometer for his mood, shine when they connect and he seems fine. Nor does he look like he just got up to scheming, even though he has no idea what that would look like on Dean. Gabe isn’t the best reference. It provokes a sense of relief that is out of place. Families shouldn't be this complicated a minefield. But the end of the night is here and they won't need to do this again for a few weeks, unless there is a special occasion.

"That den smells all kinds of stuffy. You keep corpses in there?" Dean grins on a soft whisper when they re-enter each other's orbit.

Castiel tilts his head, lacing their fingers together. "Corpses smell stuffy?"

Dean chuckles, a generous drink-induced tinge to his cheeks. "Maybe a bad choice of words."

"Unless mother keeps her secrets poorly. Does your family stand on this kind of protocol too?"

"Uhh, not like yours. That's something else."

He smiles while they hover in each other's space. "Time to go home?"

Dean's shoulders slump, rippling with relief, almost bumping their foreheads together. "Fuck, I thought you'd never ask."

"Are you good to drive?"

Hazy green eyes refocus interestingly and take him in. Dean pulls back, eyes narrowing, holding a line between playful and challenging. "You offering to drive my Baby, Cas?"

Castiel laughs softly, catching on easily enough, and leans in, pursing his lips. He curls two fingers into one of Dean's belt loops. "Is that sacrilege where you come from?"

Dean smirks, while they come nose to nose, an arm draped around Castiel’s shoulders. "Not much of a stickler for religion," he smiles, tugging at Castiel.

Great. They're drunk and _now_ they decide to get comfortable.

"Handsy," he yelps when Dean squeezes his ass.

“Huh?”

"Oh, _what_ would mother say about her innocent youngest?" Lucifer drawls. "She is on her way."

"Thanks for the head's up."

"Old habits."

Dean waggles his eyebrows. "Innocent, Cas?"

Castiel rolls his eyes and Gabriel blows a raspberry. "What they don't know can fill a warehouse."

"Right," Dean snickers, dangling the keys in front of Castiel's face. "Let's go home."

He snatches them out of Dean's hand, as they break apart for his mother's arrival.

"Let me show you out." 

She and Lucifer escort them to the front door, Gabriel tipsily shoving at Dean just because he can. It would be embarrassing if he didn't love Gabe with all his heart and Dean wasn't handling his brother with amused patience.

They enter that strange moment where their mother slips into the persona he remembers from bedtime and skinned knees. Back then he didn't know any better, but now he is acutely aware of how awkward it is for all of them, herself included. Yet she persists, though for whose sake is a mystery.

She and Crowley have the easiest exchange of all, and the Brit is quick to get to his boat, a slick Auburn-coloured AM37 that holds Dean's attention cutely. He leans over, making a pleased sound when the engine rumbles, and the boat cuts a smooth line through the water, reflecting the city lights.

"Like the ride?"

"Can't fault the man for his taste."

Castiel hums, but then his mother's voice pulls him in while she addresses Gabriel.

“I’m so relieved you were born like this,” Naomi says, cupping Gabe's cheeks. His brother looks visibly uncomfortable. “It’s one less thing to worry about.”

Gabriel scowls and Castiel isn’t far behind, glancing at Lucifer. He’s always wondered how it registers with him. Every time their mother speaks so lovingly of Betas and, more rare, Omegas, it has to hit hard for every word she _doesn’t_ say about Alphas. With Dean present, he experiences a surge of embarrassment at her casualness and is relieved when they retreat to the cottony welcome of Baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more dynamics and shenanigans. Plot, I believe, it's called. Huzzah!
> 
> I'm working my way towards posting two chapters when one of them is a short dream. But thank you for your presence and patience, all the same.
> 
> Hope everyone's holidays are shaping up in a way that doesn't stress you out and will make you feel connected.
> 
> Hugs, as always,  
> Mal


	14. Politeia of the Unnamed

Their scenery is in a permanent state of flux. It happens often enough in dreams, but in this case, they’re influencing each other and their dream world. Castiel tries to ensure he doesn’t give away anything personal and gets miffed when he spots the rock formation from their honeymoon, the cabin with waving curtains in the distance. His friend doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, gives it barely any attention. 

“This is a trip, man.”

“What is?”

“The surroundings. They keep shifting and I recognize so much of my own, it makes me wonder about yours.”

Because Castiel has managed to create bits and pieces that are neutral. Or nonsensical. Echoes of his childhood, which are distant enough to share. Holiday destination with his parents. And endless source material from his stories.

“Is that the Sword in the Stone?”

He laughs, because he isn’t sure if he called that up or not. Fitting, either way, for a brain like his. “I think so.”

“Cool. How are we doing this?”

“It’s what dreamwalkers do, isn’t it?”

“Dreamwalkers?”

“Oh… You don’t know?”

A flash of a smile impression makes it through. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you’re _not_ a dreamwalker?”

“I’m gonna go with ‘no’ on that one, Angel. I mean, I’ve heard of the practice, but I thought it was limited to supernatural beings, like warlocks, witches or angels. Which, huh, makes you one of those?”

“Well, you did nickname me as such,” he smiles, a bit unsure.

“Wings. Angel. It ain’t complicated. So what’s your real name?”

His wings bristle forward and puff up defensively at the blunt request.

"Whoa... You okay?"

Castiel grumbles, while he folds them up and back down, so his primaries breach the water surface they're hovering over. As if they're sitting on invisible cushions. Ripples fan out around them. “Yes. Yes, I'm okay. But we tend to not give those out.”

“Why not?”

“Because we're out here and it’s personal. Dreamwalkers are capable of entering your dreams against your will, if they have enough on you.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

“I… I don’t. It just seems smarter to be careful?”

Scrutiny comes off this Alpha easily, but there’s no bite behind it. “You do know,” he says. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because I barely know you.”

“Uh-huh, but there’s not a danger in sight. And we've been hanging out for a while. I think? _And_ I don’t run with just anyone.”

The scepticism annoys him, as if it reminds him of someone. “What does _that_ mean?”

A smooth shrug with hints of phoenix feathers lighting up like oculars. “I think this is the one place I don’t really need to hide these eyes.”

Or your scent, he muses, when he catches hints of a fragrance that makes his mouth water. “But also where you’re extremely vulnerable. I’d like you safe.”

“I’m safe, Angel. Right here with you, ain’t I?”

There’s a languidness to the words, as if this Alpha is draping himself across a couch or a bed comfortably. He flusters and smiles in equal measure at the palpable pressure on his skin, but doesn’t look away from the entity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daemonia Nymphe song for the title! I may still run out.
> 
> Posting will likely increase as of next week, Wednesday still being the main day.
> 
> 2020 comes to an end with fully losing my job (and the company trying to be iffy about severance), which means 2021 is going to open in the complete unknown. Transition. Time to figure out a new path.
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal


	15. Laugh At All The Wrong Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drowsiness is pulled from him like a trach tube and his brain is a lot quicker on the uptake than he ever gave himself credit for, faced with this much blood. Dean’s in the doorway to the bathroom, leaving handprints on the frame as he tries to give himself a casual attitude. Castiel doesn’t need a word to know he’s in pain.
> 
> He snarls angrily. “Why aren’t you at a hospital?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : mention of blood, wounds and stitching someone up. Nothing major, I think, but better safe than sorry. It ain't a Winchester party until someone ~~dies~~ gets hurt.
> 
> I had surgery done on my hand and typing is a no rn. (Helpful Spouse is being helpful.) Responses to comments will be slow. But you know I love you 💛
> 
> Much love to you, while you deal with these two idiots, whose climax I was working on before surgery,  
> Mal

Castiel slurs out of his sleep, the world coated in Omega gold, though for the life of him he doesn’t know what wakes him. Because it’s quiet, insofar as this city ever truly is. He knows the weight of the dead of night, until it’s shredded by the teeth-gritting sound of keys scraping over a surface they shouldn’t. Followed by a telltale inhaled breath, then held, and _silence_ as if listening to see if they’ve been caught.

Castiel is on his wobbly feet in an instant, calling out to him groggily. “Dean?”

A string of muttered curses and quickly moving steps make him tilt his head in wonder, while he makes his way to the still dark living room. Palming one eye tiredly, he flicks on the light in the hallway, squinting up a storm, because… “It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he grouches. “What are you…”

The drowsiness is pulled from him like a trach tube and his brain is a lot quicker on the uptake than he ever gave himself credit for, faced with this much blood. Dean’s in the doorway to the bathroom, leaving handprints on the frame as he tries to give himself a casual attitude. Castiel doesn’t need a word to know he’s in pain.

He snarls angrily. “ _Why_ aren’t you at a hospital?”

Dean huffs, shoulders slanted and twitchy under every strained breath he attempts to hide. “Not exactly the line of work for casual hospital visits, Cas.”

“Or a private facility your family undoubtedly has for its members,” Castiel snaps. “Isn’t that how this ‘line of work’ usually goes?” Dean grins, eyes caught on the air quotes he’s making. “This isn’t funny, Dean!”

“Do you see me laughing?” He has the audacity to wink, while he adjusts himself so he’s leaning his whole left side against the doorframe, adding dirt stains to the bloody prints. “I’ve had worse.”

“Oh, you have, have you?! That explains why you in fact _are_ smiling about it, you assbutt!” Castiel stares for a few seconds, before he steps closer, but immediately halts when Dean lifts a warning finger at him. 

“Big boys don’t cry.”

“You’re insufferable. And whoever taught you that is an idiot.” He wants to move, but something in Dean’s face makes him second guess the instinct, a sentiment he loathes the moment he becomes aware of its existence. Gritting his teeth, he gestures at Dean from head to toe, allowing his eye to take stock. “So this is normal?”

He’s cradling his right flank with his left hand. There’s blood at the cuff of his left pant leg and a dark, unpleasantly wet-looking spot at his knee.

“Yes and no. It was a solo run,” Dean grimaces. “One I had no business being on.”

“You’re lying.”

The growl Dean lets out at the accusation is loud enough to vibrate through Castiel. Huffing through pained breaths, Dean falls silent, jaw clenching either in annoyance or pain. They’re glaring at each other. And there’s that crossroads moment. Does he chase this down or not?

The smell of blood and despair shouldn’t register this… positively isn’t quite the right word, but it’s skating too close to it for Castiel’s comfort. Like that time in the bathroom two weeks ago. When the blood wasn’t Dean’s. There is something thrumming underneath he’s responding to.

“Fine,” he snarls back. He steps closer, ignoring the way Dean stiffens, and pricks a finger at him. “ _Sit_ , so I can take care of that.” Dean glowers, a dangerous rumble picking up, but Castiel has about had it. “It’s this or you answer my questions!”

“I can’t,” Dean counters, pushing off the frame. 

For a moment he worries Dean will retreat in the bathroom and close the door on him. His mouth beats his brain to the punch, before he can consider the wisdom.

“Or you _won’t_.”

Dean turns away from him. The almost whined ‘Cas’ that follows, as Dean half-stumbles, makes the decision for him. He grabs hold of Dean’s arm, squeezing down with the strength of his anger in case his husband decides to remain obstinate.

“Sit,” he repeats, a plea slipping into his scent. “It’s one of the few things I can actually do. So let me do this.”

Dean gives him a long look, breathing rough through his nose, and gives one, curt nod. Some of the tension leaves him, when they move inside the bathroom. Castiel’s hand finds purchase on Dean’s shoulder. The heat coming off him is palpable through the layers. Dean sits down on the sturdy, wooden hamper with a grunted sigh, blood and dirt tarnishing the grid. Castiel grabs the emergency kit from one of the cupboards and runs warm water in the sink. He drops a clean washcloth in it to soak. He considers sitting on the edge of the tub. Instead he gets on his knees on the bath mat and waits while Dean peels off his disgustingly filthy shirt before, spurred on by one too many empathic winces in response to Dean’s pain, he pitches in to help. Dean’s sigh is barely there, but he catches it.

He isn’t sure what he is smelling exactly while his gaze focuses on the freckled skin, but it’s acidic. Metallic twinge when he breathes in too deep. The burning fragrance is there again, like Dean spent too much time near a barbecue. Finding it strangely appealing, he grimaces at himself in the mirror while he wrings the cloth out.

“Lean back,” he says, kneeling beside Dean again.

Dean grips the sides of the hamper tight enough for his knuckles to pale at the first touch of warm water. He doesn’t make another sound. Carefully, he wipes the grime off. As he does, he casts one or two furtive glances at Dean’s face, finding nothing but a marble blank. It takes effort not to ask what on earth did this, so instead he focuses on cleaning out the cuts. Nasty, ragged gashes, close together. Claws. His skin prickles unpleasantly at the danger Dean puts himself in every time he leaves, and the fact that he can’t say anything without the risk of setting them both off. Hunters tend to take their job hellishly serious.

Dean sighs and his muscles shake a few times under Castiel’s touch, before he relaxes marginally. It’s more of a bodily backwards collapse, his head thudding against the tiled wall, hands still holding tight. Little rivulets and drops of cloudy red water trickle down and pool on the floor, messing up the hamper some more on their way.

“You’re good at a lotta things,” he says abruptly. “A lot more than you seem to think.” Dean grumbles softly, when Castiel doesn’t respond. “Just my two cents.”

Castiel pointedly ignores the attempt at smoothing his way back into his good graces. Let Dean know he’s aware of more than he lets on. And less than amused.

“What happened?”

Eyes flying open, Dean tenses again. Castiel puts his palm over his heart, holding his gaze in an attempt to convey a message, until Dean softens once more. “They mistook me for… something I’m not. Kinda big. Tends to get people riled up as if size is an excuse to pick a fight.”

Castiel can taste the lie. Well, not an outright lie, this one. An omission, dodging the whole truth. He doesn’t pry, though it hurts more than he likes to admit. The family business, whether his own or Dean’s, he thinks caustically while he patches up his husband, is clearly not done influencing his life just yet.

“So you went alone?” Dean closes his eyes and nods, sucking air in through his teeth when the disinfectant stings. Castiel lays out the sterile patches on a clean towel, unsure which size to use or what to say to that excessively stupid decision on Dean’s part. “Do I need to stitch this up?”

Dean snorts and eyes the oozing wounds critically, clearly unhappy with what he finds. “Do you know how?”

“No,” he bites. “But I’m a quick study. So talk me through it.”

Dean falls quiet and they stare at each other, caught in a stalemate to figure out if either of them is bluffing. A quick flash of a crooked smile and Dean nods, making Castiel wonder if this is such a good idea. And why does this man put himself in his wholly inadequate hands?

“Have you ever sewn anything?”

“Yes. But not skin.”

“It ain’t that different,” Dean says reassuringly. “Just another kind of needle and thread.”

“And canvas.”

“It’s flexible.”

“Ugh, you’re enjoying this,” he mutters. “Which needle?”

“Can’t a guy be pleasantly surprised? The bent one. Thread is next to it. Here.”

Dean hands him his lighter and it’s a testament to the shit he’s read and watched that he instantly knows. An interesting emotion plays in Dean’s eyes, while Castiel sterilizes the needle before threading it. 

He looks at the wounds, biting his lip. “Now what?”

“Well, surprisingly, you just… sew it up. Start on one end. Stitch a quarter inch apart and from the skin edge. Skin can’t pucker when you thread it together.”

“God help me,” he mutters, more out of habit than anything else.

“Would he?”

“I doubt it. Now hush.”

Queasiness turns his stomach when the skin fights his first few tries and it looks like he’s causing more damage. Dean grunts in pain, but holds his silence, while Castiel tries again and the skin gives, the needle piercing through. It is an unpleasant sight, but he stows that judgement, focused on not messing up.

“On second thought, talk to me,” he whispers.

“You’re doin’ good. How does that sound?”

He hums noncommittally, trying to throw a neutral filter over what he’s doing. Just a needle and thread, nothing more.

“I should know,” Dean adds. “Been stitched up plenty of times.”

And yes, he can see that, because there are several scars across Dean’s torso, which of course he also doesn’t know what to do with.

“An impressive growl you’ve got,” he says idly for lack of anything else.

Dean chuckles and he hisses in admonishment, because it moves his canvas. “Same for you.”

“For an Omega, you mean?”

Okay, he might be a bit touchy.

“Nope,” Dean bites back. “Being what I am, I’m not exactly hung up on stereotypes.”

He almost flinches at the word. “Well, good,” he says, feeling like a hypocrite.

“I just like the sound of it.”

So does Castiel, but he’s not gonna admit that.

“Why didn’t you go to Victor or Jo?”

He watches with interest as Dean’s eyes track the ceiling in search of whatever it is he needs to figure out his answer. When he looks at Castiel and lets out a little sound of surprise, his heart tumbles in his chest. 

“Huh…”

“Huh, what?”

“Cause this is home, I guess.”

That one hurts, because as much as he wants to feel the same way, he’s not sure he can. Or even if he’ll be able to, because the unspokens are piling up between them. Castiel always hated the - to him - obsolete intricacies that complicate connections. Power. Business. Arrangements. Even biology gets complicated by them and it all seems so very wrong, but he can’t fully put it into words. He wonders how he can feel so disconnected from someone whose blood is all over his hands.

“I think I’m done with this. Shall we look at your knee?”


	16. Hades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His lungs are filling with water. Though Castiel isn’t the one drowning, his chest burns by proxy, because somehow he’s right there with Dean. In the dark and deepened waters, the murky liquid going up his nose and down his throat. His wings are lugged down with water and every inch of muscle in his body strains under the struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Hades, by Daemonia Nymphe (you kinda know the drill by now).
> 
> Hugs from a very tired Mal

His lungs are filling with water. Though Castiel isn’t the one drowning, his chest burns by proxy, because somehow he’s right there with Dean. In the dark and deepened waters, the murky liquid going up his nose and down his throat. His wings are lugged down with water and every inch of muscle in his body strains under the struggle.

He grabs for Dean, finding his skin ice cold under his touch. Under Dean, the water is roiling and writhing as if it’s alive. When he tries to pull Dean closer, he is met with an immense resistance. Black tendrils shoot out from behind Dean’s back and shove him off. The next second, they wrap around Dean tightly and pull him into the depths out of sight. Castiel screams, bubbles obscuring his sight, until he too runs out of air.

He switches forms so he doesn’t have to maneuver his heavy wings around and attempts to push against the boundaries of the nightmare. To influence and bend it to his will, to bring Dean to safety, even while he knows it’s only his dream. Except it’s never  _ just  _ a dream. Not for a fallen angel like himself. He sniffs the ozone permeating the nightmare, trying to find a trace of identity of… anyone, familiar or not, friend or foe. If this is Lucifer, it’s exceptionally cruel and unnecessary.

Fear that perhaps this  _ is  _ Dean’s dream grips him tight. He should be able to intervene. Tears mingle with the water, while he fights and dives deeper.

He did this once before.

He can do it again.

Except he’s failing.

And Dean’s drowning over and over and over.

When he wakes up, he’s stuck in the sheets, sweating profusely, and unable to speak. By the time he finds his voice back, there’s no point calling out for Dean.

He isn’t home.

Castiel types out and erases four variants of ‘are you ok?’ and never sends the text. Instead he stays awake, exhausted and wired, until he hears Dean come home. He listens to Dean showering and… singing softly, and smiles through his tears.

Just a nightmare, he tells himself. Just a nightmare. Dean is safe.


	17. We Are The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is this place? We should be home, cooking.”
> 
> “You read my mind,” he says with a wink, holding the door open. “Remember the community your mom was griping about?”
> 
> Cas turns on his axis, taking in the surroundings. “Jo’s mom?”
> 
> “Ellen. This is her diner, The Roadhouse,” he nods. “Best burgers in the city and my favorite place, cause it has some of my favorite people.”

Cas comes to find him while he’s doing nothing in particular, except soak up the cool breeze of an early autumn morning over his coffee. Turns out when you have a family, even if it consists of only two people, it is easier to claim privacy. Time away from the family business and his mother. He keeps tabs on Sam, because it is hard not to feel guilty about leaving him behind at The Bunker. 

Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but Cas is holding out a plate with an omelet toast in front of his nose.

“Do you do anything?” Cas asks.

“Huh?” He sits up to accept the offering and side eyes Cas. “Is this avocado?”

“I’m surprised you recognise it.”

“Hey, now.. what kinda barbarian do you take me for?”

“Is that a trick question? ‘Cause you sound like the type that knows his greens, even when he doesn’t like them.”

“Blame Sam.”

Cas snickers when Dean glares at him and schools his face. Or tries to anyway, because a poker face his husband doesn’t have. Deceptively innocent at times. Utterly clueless at others. A definite mischievous streak too. Poker face, not so much. “Trust me. Green is good for you.” 

“Uh-huh,” he says, eyeing the food dubiously. Sam’s mentioned this stuff. It smells good though and he’s hungry, so he takes a large bite, talking around it. “Do I do wha’?”

“Anything,” Cas says, handling his toast with much more grace than himself. “Besides hunt, eat and sleep. I mean, I guess it could qualify as eat, pray, love in your circles.”

“Hilarious. I do things,” he says, semi-offended.

“Such as?”

“I work on Baby.”

“When was the last time you did that outside the necessity of reliable transport for a hunt?”

“They’re kinda inextricably linked. It ain’t an either/or situation. And I like working on cars.”

“Question stands,” Cas says dead-pan, shooting him an unimpressed look.

“Hmm, does the Inquisition have an objective in mind with this line of questioning or are you bored?”

“I’m _curious_ about you… r hobbies.”

“Oh! I know this. It’s twenty questions!”

Chewing delicately, Cas shakes his head. “Sure?”

“In that case, my name is Dean Winchester. I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women.”

He grins when Cas’ face contorts in that adorable, confused squint. “Very charming,” he says eventually. “Is there room for your husband on that list?”

“Of course,” Dean smiles. “Especially because he made me a tasty omelet. What you got in mind?”

“Hmm,” Cas says, eyebrow doing a funny thing. “You’re welcome. I wanna go shopping.”

“Come again?”

“We missed stuff on the beginner household kit and we need to fix that.”

“There’s a beginner household kit? How did we miss anything, when we weren’t involved much?” Dean sniffs unhappily. “This all started with hobbies. How did we end up here?”

“Good question,” Cas says sweetly, taking his plate from him. “Shall we?”

The smile that forms is unbidden.

*

Cas looks highly amused by the experience of taking Dean shopping. Cause Dean protested all the way over and even took a detour, trying to tempt Cas with alternatives like the drive-in cinema and the park. But now that they’re inside, he has trouble not buying more than they came for and Cas _knows_.

“We already have two blankets in the cart,” Cas smiles.

“But _feel_.”

“Yes, it is very soft. So are the others.”

Dean swaps one out for the other. “Can’t believe you can’t tell the difference.”

“I’m merely trying to stick to the list.”

“List shmist.”

“You would say that.”

Dean leans in to check the apparently very important list. “What are we still missing?”

“A decent bottle opener, cause the one we have is flimsy. An extra pair of scissors, a deep baking tray, two power boards, and some cleaning stuff.”

“Cleaning stuff?”

“Yes, handsome, unless you believe any maintenance issue can be solved by throwing money at it?”

“No, I…” He huffs at the conclusions Cas is quick to jump to. “I do the maintenance on my own car. I’m aware. Just figure if that’s a thing, we should work out a schedule.”

Cas is staring at him again.

“No? I mean, we do the dishes together…”

“Right. Do you know how to clean?”

“Seriously!” Dean exclaims on a laugh that draws attention. “What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know?!” Cas yelps. “I don’t know what kinda childhood you had. And isn’t it the Omega’s job?”

Dean leans in, narrowing his eyes, smirking when Cas retreats, perplexed. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know for sure nor do I care much. The _Omega_ ,” he says pointedly, snatching the list from Cas’ hand, “is going to college, so we best divide and conquer.”

Cas chuffs at him sweetly, then glances around at that cute little display, and frowns at Dean. “Behave.”

“What’d I do?” Dean grins, following after Cas when he starts moving again. “That was all you, sweetheart.”

*

“What is this place? We should be home, cooking.”

“You read my mind,” he says with a wink, holding the door open. “Remember the community your mom was griping about?”

Cas turns on his axis, taking in the surroundings. “Jo’s mom?”

“Ellen. This is her diner, The Roadhouse,” he nods. “Best burgers in the city and my favorite place, cause it has some of my favorite people.”

He can’t tell if the line lands, because Cas is too enthralled by the stuff Ellen threw up on the walls, pulling it off better than any Hard Rock Cafe. Cas saunters over to the glass cases, holding a few precious items.

“This looks like your gun,” he says. Dean trails after him and sees Cas is pointing at the gun he knows all too well. He laughs. 

“Charming, but it ain’t. That’s Doc Holliday’s gun replica. From _Tombstone_?”

“Right,” Cas nods, tilting his head. “Is it true he used it at the O.K. Corral shootout?”

His eyebrows fly up. “Damn, Cas! You know your Old West lore.”

Cas straightens up, a pleased expression on his face, as he turns to Dean. “Why so surprised, dear husband? _I’m your Huckleberry._ ”

Dean stutters out a few inhuman noises at that, instantly lost for words. He can’t tell if Cas is yanking his chain or aware of what that means exactly. He should be and it’s making him all kinds of fuzzy on the inside, when Cas’ eyes warm up with a teasing smile.

“Uhhhm… Drink?” he offers, pointing towards the bar.

“Yes, please."

Ellen smiles at both of them, clearly in the midst of several orders. It’s a busy night, so he wanders up to the bar, giving her a meaningful nod. “How you doing these days, beautiful?”

She looks at Cas, who sidles up alongside Dean, a lot closer than he usually would. He wonders if perhaps he misjudged this. Maybe Cas prefers to be at home, where there are less people. And shit, it’s a Sunday.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Ellen says. She’s the picture of ease, but he catches her studying Cas. Mere seconds which is enough for Dean to get the message.

“Let me know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Good for now, sweetie. Jo’s been meaning to talk to you, but kid’s out hunting tonight. Picking up your slack.” She slides over a tumbler of Dean’s favorite whiskey. “And what’ll it be for you?”

“Dean’s not slacking,” Cas says, frowning. “Is he?”

Ellen’s eyebrows shoot up in sweet surprise and she stills in her gestures. Leaning in, she crooks her finger at Cas, who is quick to mirror her, face turned up to her in open curiosity. “Don’t let his bark fool you. He’s been working less, if he can help it.”

“He doesn’t bark much,” Cas smiles, going pink in the cheeks. “Not at me anyway.”

“Hmm,” Ellen chuckles. “Let me know if he does. I’ll come over and set him straight.”

An edge sharpening his features, Cas laughs, and Dean’s not sure what he’s seeing. “Oh, really? Hope he’s using his time to keep you safe.”

He hears the implication, surprised that Cas is prodding at the family business. Dean tenses slightly, but Ellen manages to only let her eyebrows rise and holds her silence.

“Uhh,” Dean stutters, when Cas looks at him.

“I saw the exchange and I was there when mother was being her charming self. There’s no need to walk on eggshells around me.”

Ellen blinks a few times and lets out a sharp laugh. “Point taken, Castiel.”

“So are you safe? Because my mother can be like a dog with a bone.”

“We are. There’s nothing to be found here.”

“Okay,” Dean grumbles. “You good now, Cas?” He rumbles out another low sound when Cas looks at him way too innocently.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“Uh- _huh_.” Dean waves at the myriad of hard liquor around them, while Ellen’s laughter speaks volumes. “Let’s take the edge off. What’s it going to be, sweetheart?”

The tension almost immediately leaving him, Cas tilts his head, scanning the wall behind Ellen and the tap, then lights up. “Your homebrew?”

“Good choice,” she says. “Coming right up. Order your food at the bar tonight. My crew is running themselves ragged.”

*

Leaning back against the bench, Cas groans and Dean hears the button being popped. “Don’t ever take me here again.”

“No?” 

Grinning, he tries valiantly to ignore the sated feeling leaking through Cas’ scent. His blockers are wearing off, which he’s noticed isn’t something Cas seems too fussed about. Certainly not at home, which makes sense, but here he wishes he’d be more vigilant. It’s always iffy to point out what he catches, because Nulls aren’t supposed to have excessively well developed olfactory senses. The woman at the table behind Cas glances over her shoulder, a smile to her eyes.

A familiar tune picks up outside and there’s the sound of wheels crunching on the parking lot gravel.

“Well, hate to break it you, Cas, but there’s more.”

“What?”

He pricks his finger up near his ear to get Cas’ attention.

“Is that… an ice cream van, pulling up?” Cas mutters. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Deeeean, no,” Cas grumbles, moving like a man with too many regrets.

“I want one.”

“Well, then you get one. Cause unless you plan on rolling me home, I’m not. Baby won’t be able to hold me.”

“Want me to carry you?” he smirks.

Cas’ eyes flash golden, even while he rolls them to the heavens. “Shoo. Go get your ice cream.”

“You sure?” He almost sounds like a whining kid, but he’s known the ice cream van to stop by The Roadhouse for forever and can’t not indulge. “He has these tiny nuggets of cookie ice cream dipped in chocolate. They’ll fill the gaps in your stomach.”

His grin grows ever wider under Cas’ stare, until he guffaws and gets up. The line outside is negligible, so he’s quick to his turn, have a chat with the son about his mother’s health, and get back inside before his treat starts to melt. He slides back onto his bench. Cas leans his cheek against his knuckles, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“Where do you keep tucking all that food?”

“I told you. It melts and fills the gaps. All good.”

Cas hums sweetly, his eyes clearly stuck on Dean’s mouth. The tease ‘want some’ forms in his mind, but he’s too busy shaping the triple scoop into a soft ice swirl. Hidden behind enough meds and blockers to neutralize even the smell of a ghoul’s treasure hoard, there is no way Cas knows. So why do his eyes light up with mischief and they slip-slide into another one of those wordless moments, where Dean tilts his arm enough to hint and Cas leans in enough to take him up on that?

He watches in utter bemusement while Cas licks from his ice cream cone. He landed himself in a very poorly directed porn clip or an accidental date. Or both? His face tingles and heats up, while his Alpha has all kinds of suggestions where to take this next. But he ignores that one in favour of staying right where he is. He doesn’t get his ice cream fix as much as he’d have liked, but feels like he got something infinitely better in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more unintended fluff. These two threw a lot of domestics at me, despite the requested angst. Guess I can't hide the nature of the beast.
> 
> Hope everyone is looking forward to tomorrow eve and leaving this year behind us. It won't miraculously make the world change, but rituals are important and perhaps we are able to will other change into said world. We will be building a little fire in our garden (in the barbeque), lighting some sparks and hopes for 2021.
> 
> Stay safe, friends, and Happy Newyear!  
> Much love,  
> Mal


	18. Summoning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song right [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiEutOcaLik), but I divided it over two chapters. Which also means you're getting three for the price of one ^^
> 
> Hope everyone's doing alright. The sun is shining here and I've got a cat curled up under the blanket with me.
> 
> Love, as ever,  
> Mal

He’s jumping from surface to surface, aware of those on his tail. Not an actual tail. Castiel likes to reside in aspects of his true form, shifting from lion to eagle, depending on his mood. When he isn’t in his six-winged form, that is. He rarely uses the ox or the human form, since he’s stuck in the latter most of the time down there. He misses... a lot of what used to be, even when he can't remember much of his old life. He read those stories too. Of a world that defied the laws of physics which now bind him. Laws that keep him without and withhold from him matters beyond words. But his soul remembers and can be obsessive about the stories. To keep them alive. Glancing over his shoulder, he spots the numerous, tiny shapes, advancing in bulk as they crawl and chase him. Dust bunnies, like in Totoro. Harmless, normally, though they’re moving with unusual intent. A sense of claustrophobia hits. He needs to stay ahead of them. Something ripples through his dream, like clingfilm.

His surroundings turn a deep purple, lending a disturbing quality to some of the almost muscle-like structures that coil and writhe. They give way with an unpleasant squelch, whenever he lands on them, some tendrils chasing after him as he gives himself over to gravity, such as it is here. The little ones are using the strings of ‘muscle’ to move faster, like neurons, a discordant pitched sound joining in.

Unsure, he jumps and shifts to his tall, wiry frame, extending all six wings, leaving that behind, and just… coasts on stardust. Warm like the ocean, it holds him up without effort. Interesting part of the dream planr is that he can search for something everywhere. Nightmare or not. His heart hums a melody.

Or someone.


	19. Everyone Has Their Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean?” 
> 
> Cas’ voice sounds tiny and it has him cocking an eyebrow in a mute, sideways glance.
> 
> “Can I have a hug?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild dysfunction/angst between our boys.

Dean’s in the middle of flipping the sixth pancake, when Cas stumbles out of their room, looking for all the world like he just spent an hour on the roof in the middle of a good autumn windstorm. His husband’s bed hair is without a doubt _amazing_. So messy, he can’t help the guffawed response to it and almost misses the pancake on its way down.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he smiles brightly. “How are you today?”

“Your pancakes are noisy.”

Oh, how wonderfully grumpy he sounds. “Are they? Tsk. I’ll give them a stern talking to when I’m done. Threaten to eat them.”

“You’re also noisy in the bathroom, come to think of it.”

He grins, that going-too-high-on-the-swing-feeling tumbling in his chest. “It’s called singing, Cas.”

“At ass o’clock in the morning?”

“Maybe? Maybe you’re a horrendously light sleeper.” He wants to add that’s why he’s been using the spare room, but decides against it when Cas glowers some more. “You sure you’re okay?”

“ _Yes_.” Cas’ eyebrows knit together and is that a slight pout to his lower lip? 

Dean snorts, trying to hold back the snicker, and fails. “Dude, you’re up later than I am. That _never_ happens.”

Cas squints at him, eyes drooping, but alert. “You look like you never went to bed, so I think you’re cheating.”

“Well spotted,” Dean winks. “So what’s up, besides your hair?”

Curling in on himself a bit, Cas frowns and pats at his hair, which is zero help. “I… I’ve been having restless nights. My dreams… I… They’ve been a bit messy.”

Dean takes a closer look at those words, which make it sounds like it’s unusual or can be controlled. Cas is standing there, very forlorn in how he fidgets with his sleeve, though his gaze tracks each of Dean’s movements, especially when the pancake twirls through the air a second time before he slides it onto the stacked plate. His face has a tendency towards melancholy, at least when he’s not smiling, and the bags under his eyes are etched deeper, an almost purple hue to them.

“Dean?” 

Cas’ voice sounds tiny and it has him cocking an eyebrow in a mute, sideways glance.

“Can I have a hug?”

He almost drops the pan, his reflexes the only reason he manages to catch it away from the activated hob to a cool one rather than potentially crack the ceramic surface. His Alpha beats him to it, before he can stutter or second guess the request.

“Of course.”

And holy hell, Cas’ scent brightens in ways he hasn’t smelled so far. He can suppress his own with as many meds as he wants. It doesn’t mitigate the effect Cas throws around their house so casually like confetti. Inhaling subtly, he tries to hold his breath, letting it out in slow bursts, while he hugs his husband. Taking the brunt of their combined weight, he leans back against the kitchen counter. He’s surprised when Cas fits under his chin. It can’t be horribly comfortable, but then Omega instincts may be what they are. His Alpha’s here for it, even if Cas is unaware.

“Wanna talk about them?”

A small ‘murr’ sound is muffled into his chest and Cas squeezes down tighter, a hand slipping under his tee. Dean noses into his hair and pecks the top of his head, cause what else is he gonna do? When Cas nuzzles at his neck, however, his whole body wants to lock up. It takes every reflex and instinct not to, but to suffer this intimate gesture without being able to give into it is much harder and more painful than he could have anticipated. Cas’ flanks expand with a sad sound that is familiar. It takes him a minute to realize where from and an annoyed kind of sorrow twists up his chest.

Cas tilts his face up, chin pressed to Dean’s sternum. He must have three double chins while he strains to look at him in return. He’s expecting Cas to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he remains where he is, as if he’s trying to make sense of Dean, eyes moist. Unsure what to do or say, Dean suffers through it for far longer than he’d let anyone, or thinks he does anyway, before he gets antsy.

To break the spell, he tracks his fingers through Cas’ bedhair, and tilts his head towards the stove. “Hungry?”

Another few moments of staring, until… “It’s the dreamwalking.”

“What?”

“Dreamwalking,” Cas repeats.

“The angel ability,” he says dully. “The one Morningstar’s so good at.”

“Lucifer will do. He’s bad enough without a special title.”

He ignores the jibe. “You’re one of them?”

“All angels can,” Cas says, visibly peeved when Dean loosens his hold on him, arms falling at Cas’ waist. “It’s nothing special.”

“Except it is. Your family is known for using it to pry information loose and get people to bend to your will.”

“Not _my_ will. Though you seem all too eager to keep lumping me in with them.”

He scrunches up his face at the accusation. “So what happened?”

“Nothing,” Cas says caustically, retreating. “Just restless. As dreamwalkers, it can get intense out there. Don’t you ever have intense dreams, Dean? Or do hunters not dream?”

“Of course I do. I never remember them, unless it’s nightmare material, but nothing much is these days. They’re just dreams. For us humans anyway.”

“I’m fallen. For all intents and purposes, so am I.”

“Bullshit, clearly,” Dean snaps. “If you’re still dreamwalking. Who were you going for?”

“No one! I was just… Sometimes dreams can be tiring. Nothing more.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, _please_ , like your mother wouldn’t want to get her hands on the ability?” he snaps. “Don’t put this on me.”

“Sure thing, Cas. Just stay the fuck out of mine.”

Dean knows breakfast is ruined the second the words are out of his mouth. Cas pushes off him, the sting of his nails palpable, and vanishes in the bathroom.


	20. ... Divine Selene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other half of the song title. Very short dream sequences.
> 
> Good morning! *hugs*  
> Hope this triple update provides some of what you need today 💛  
> Mal

Rare. That’s why he wants to find him again. Nothing else. It is rare to simply _stumble_ upon a fellow dreamwalker, let alone one who doesn’t seem to be aware they are one. Whatever’s been going on in the city today though (or in his waking hours), its residents are threatening to pull him into their intense recovery dreams and he gets distracted all too easily.

Some of them are so gorgeous, he can’t resist sneaking a peak, even when it’s a breach of privacy. Perhaps it's an escape of sorts, because he doesn't want to weave his own. He worries what he might give into. Or what might find him. Who might...

Because the funny (but not ha-ha funny) thing is people tend to remember their strange or bad dreams most. Either because they couldn’t get out or the impressions made them wake up, soaked in sweat and that strange, tilting moment of confusion about time, space and everything in between. So he touches their little bubbles with intent, hoping they’ll remember the good dreams, at least today. Tomorrow. His awareness extends to them, but much further at the same time, reaching, reachingreachingreaching for... him. He knows he is. He knows he shouldn't.

Time is relative here, until he wakes up and a strange sense of guilt sneaks up on him. Outside his room, their room, the house sounds and smells empty.


	21. Writing Letters In My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel hoists the boxes onto the dinner table. When he folds the first one open, he grimaces. Flipping the lid back down to check what is written on it, he cocks his eyebrow.
> 
> “In what world does ‘research’ cover ‘Busty Asian Beauties’, Dean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiny by Tanstaafl! Thank you, love. *FLOPS ON*
> 
> Have some awkward boys being akward, but cute (imho). In case I freaked any of you out on the previous chapter. Dean just wasn't home.
> 
> Hugs to you!  
> Mal

Castiel hoists the boxes onto the dinner table. When he folds the first one open, he grimaces. Flipping the lid back down to check what is written on it, he cocks his eyebrow.

“In what world does ‘research’ cover ‘Busty Asian Beauties’, Dean?”

His husband isn’t there to reply, mind you, as he’s been called to The Bunker for a family meeting. The Winchesters have these on a weekly basis, but lately it’s been more like twice a week. Much to Dean’s dismay, he still attends every time. And the whole setup of obligatory meetings and Asian porn makes him wonder how things could have gone if the infamous Winchester training hadn’t kept them apart until recently. Their families weren’t friends, so why should they? It never seemed to cross anyone’s mind to ask the kids involved and deal them a better hand from the start.

Castiel is going through the process of unpacking seemingly endless cardboard boxes to balance out his studying. As interesting as it is, he’s used to fanciful stories and his brain strains under the prolonged effort of paying attention in class, followed up with homework. And maybe also to stop himself daydreaming about his Alpha friend, who has been taking up a surprising amount of his headspace. Even in class, where his newfound, material plane, Alpha friend, Balthazar noticed his preoccupation and tried to needle information out of him. So he told him about his wonderful husband and their garden instead, which was nice, because it wasn’t a lie and he genuinely made himself smile in the process, anchoring back to this world.

Now, however, he makes a dubious face, while he holds up the magazine, the centerfold dropping out unbidden. Sighing, he folds it back in and puts the stack aside. In the box are a bunch of loose items and knickknacks, which look random and detached, but undoubtedly aren’t for Dean. At the bottom, cushioning everything on top, is a very worn jacket. Castiel rubs his fingers over the collar, purring at the softness of the leather. He wants to say it smells like Dean, but that’s impossible. Barring the man’s favorite soap and deodorant, which he doubts are in the mix here.

“What am I gonna do with all this stuff?”

Some boxes are easy to unpack. Books, framed pictures and little keepsakes. They get scattered around the house, alongside his own. He doubts Dean will want his porn on display, though, for kicks, he lays it out on the coffee table.

He holds up a scruffy plushy that squints back at him. A beige and brown cat with blue eyes. It rings a vague bell, so he snaps a picture and sends it to Anna to ask. Next he digs up a few decorative daggers. A bunch of cassette tapes with scribbled handwriting. A very used basics cookbook. A small wooden statue of two curled up wolves, which might just be handcarved. And then a small heart-shaped rock that’s hidden in the zippered breast pocket of the jacket, wrapped in a handkerchief with the initials ‘JW’ on it.

He leans on the edges of the cardboard, which bend under his weight, while he turns the little smooth rock over between his fingers.

Deja-vu hits, so he holds the item up between his thumb and index finger, the sun glinting off its surface. It has a dark blue hue to it.

Cupping the little thing in his palm, he wanders backwards, frowning down at his hand in wonder. His gaze tracks over their book cases, momentarily disoriented, because everything is still falling into place since they moved. Bedroom, he thinks. And yes, there they are. His old diaries, tucked away in the top corner of ‘his’ book closet, which is more of a memory closet with all its junk and stuff, but fine.

He plucks out the one with the coral pink and gold back, and instantly knows it’s the right one, when he opens it and the dried gardenia falls out, its white petals so fragile he holds his breath for a moment.

“Heavens,” he whispers on a smile. “We both kept it.”

*

“You’re late,” Castiel says. “I texted you.”

He’s in the kitchen, already on the cooking, because, judging by the bag Dean has slung over his shoulder, he went on an unplanned food run and kinda left Castiel hanging.

“Yeah, sorry, but...”

Dean falters, when his gaze falls to the coffee table. He tracks it to Castiel. Difficult to say what Dean’s face is doing, as his expression flickers from confused to questioning before he settles on something sleazy. His mouth does that kinda hot thing where it crooks up on one side and he waggles his eyebrows.

“Did you get bored, Cas?”

“What? No!” he splutters. “Those are _yours_ , aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but don’t let me stop you, man.”

“I was unpacking boxes and found them,” Castiel says, feeling out of his depth. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were aware of my gender when we married, yes?”

“I was. Am. Of both,” Dean nods. “Yes.”

“So we’re not gonna suffer some sexual identity crisis?”

“Oh, that!” Dean shakes his head. He slides the bag down to his hand and sets it on the kitchen counter. “Not at all. I’m bi. And I was joking when I said you can use ‘em. As in, you’re welcome to use ‘em, but I was teasing? You suck all the fun out of this.”

He grimaces, as he nudges his shoulder into Dean’s. “I’m so sorry you can’t tease _me_ about _your_ porn successfully. What is this world coming to?”

“Right?!”

“Besides, I don’t think recently married couples necessarily need to resort to porn? I mean, don’t they usually…”

“Uhh, yes. I mean, no.” Dean’s eyes go wide and his brow furrows, while he tries to give himself an attitude. “I hadn’t given it a lotta thought.”

Castiel knows he should stop talking, this would be a really good time to do so, but he can’t. “Unless you’re into that? I feel this is becoming much more than it should be. I’ll just… shut it now. Yes? Yes. I mean, it’s okay if you’re into that, clearly if you’re bi… but...”

He falters and gapes at Dean. Part twinkles, part desperation, Dean looks at him helplessly, before something in the bag seems to lose its balance and topples. They both scramble to prevent it from falling. 

“Shit.”

“Damnit…”

They fumble with the bag until everything inside it is no longer trying to escape. Dean clears his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to pick up some…”

“Pie?” Castiel teases quickly. “Beer? Decent lunches?”

Relieved, Dean laughs and shakes his head, shouldering his jacket off, while he takes in how far Castiel got with dinner. Curious, Castiel tries to peek inside the bag and only catches a bunch of colours before Dean flicks his hand out to his chin, then almost boops his nose. It is such an unexpected gesture, he smiles, his cheeks still warm from the porn exchange.

“Ah-ah,” Dean chides. “Small surprise after dinner. And what do you mean, ‘decent lunches’? I eat lunch.”

“Yes, less than stellar sandwiches that you seem to assemble on the fly. We have leftovers you can take.”

“That stuff spills.”

Castiel shoots him a look, resolving to make Dean lunch from here on out, if he can help it. Dean slips behind Castiel into their kitchen smoothly, though most of the work is done. “Finishing touch on the sauce?”

“Go ahead,” he says. “You’re better with herbs than I am.”

“Says He-Who-Keeps-Plants-Alive,” Dean says. His eyes skitter across their freshly picked and dried herbs, choosing them with care.

Castiel fishes for a spaghetti string to check if it’s done. It slips back into the water several times before he manages to twist it around the fork. Cupping his hand underneath, he blows to cool it, his attention drawn back to the bag.

“What kind of surprise?” he asks.

Dean flashes him a grin over his shoulder, while he sprinkles in the final touch. “How was school? Did you bring any books?”

He rolls his eyes at being ignored, a miffed kind of sentiment crinkling up his nose. “A few actually,” he replies with indulgence. “They’re also on the coffee table.”

“Hey, no one can accuse us of not having a wide range in taste.”

“And I just know Gabe would agree with you,” Castiel sighs. “Which, no, isn’t in your favour, Dean.”

He pours off the water. They each fill their bowl, before heading into the garden, Dean with two beer bottles between his fingers. The night air promises to cool off later, but for now remains pleasantly warm.

“Remind me,” Dean says. “Is he joining for the movie marathon this weekend?”

Castiel takes his time settling into their nook. He’s grown attached to their evenings easily, especially when they sit outside. The cushion under him is soft and the way the wicker chair cups around him cocooning. He folds his legs under him to get comfortable.

“He is, actually. So far it’s going to be Sam, Charlie, Anna and Gabe. That group chat gives me a headache though.”

“Which one?” Dean snorts. “Cause Charlie keeps creating more of them, depending on the damn event.”

“The heap chat. All of us.”

“I muted that one.”

He squints at Dean, who shrugs, one cheek bulged up with food. “Wha’? I need that phone for work. Can’t use it if it blows up every five minutes, cause someone needs to share a brain fart.”

Suddenly he’s worried he’s been talking too much in those chats. He’s been accused of being overly chatty more than once and Dean’s clearly sensitive to it. But it’s easy to get sidetracked with the likes of Charlie and Jo, who so readily welcome him. “Gabe’s the one who sends all the memes. I’d think you’d be used to it with _your_ bunch. They’re the ones who have no filter.”

Dean barks a sweet laugh. “One word. _Gabriel_. Anyway, it’s just because everyone’s a little excited and feeling their way around each other.”

“Different personalities.”

“Exactly. And it’s luring us out more.”

He tilts his head, while he savours the food more for every spoonful Dean shovels into his mouth, barely chewing. “You know… For someone who loves cooking so much, you kinda eat at a terrifying speed.”

His face scrunches up, as if he’s sucking on a lemon. “What?”

“You’re not on a hunt. You don’t need to inhale and go.”

Dean suddenly looks like a scolded youngster, balking as his eyes flick to his bowl and back to Castiel’s, which is decidedly fuller. “I guess I eat kinda fast, huh?”

He smiles, unsure why Dean looks so uncomfortable.

“It’s, uhh, it’s cause there’s never been a lotta downtime. Ever since we were kids and we went into training. There wasn’t much room for anything else. Not like your family… That dinner was something else. Boring, if it wasn’t for you and Crowley, but…”

“I wouldn’t call our family dinners downtime,” he mutters.

“Dude, it took three hours and there was nothing else going on besides, y’know, _that_.”

“Yes, but doesn’t it feel like one giant flayed nerve to you?”

Dean shrugs lightly. “I’d have just gone with awkward, but giant flayed nerve works too.”

Castiel shoots him a soft glare. “No one is at ease, except the ones who don’t care if anyone else is.”

“I guess,” Dean says. “Not like our family doesn’t get weird. Dude, I must have annoyed the shit out of her, huh?”

“Who? Mother?” He tries to pretend he didn’t notice Naomi’s horrified expressions throughout the evening.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“What? No! It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s not about manners. That’s mother’s thing. Just makes me wonder if you actually relax when we’re here.”

“Hey, now, I’m plenty relaxed,” Dean says, cheeks warming. “You liked me pissing off your mom, didn’t you?”

Castiel can’t help the grin that forms. “She stands to benefit from some perspective sometimes.”

Dean snorts, lifting a full spoon to his mouth. “Can do, sweetheart.”

His patience is tested until after they finish the dishes, before Dean unpacks the stuff in the bag. Castiel is quick to sidle up to him, when, one by one, Dean lines up a wide array of herbs and teas. Some are in colourful boxes with fancy names. Others are fresh herbs in zipper bags.

“What’s this?” he asks and closes his eyes the next second. “I swear if you say ‘tea’, Dean…”

“Well, be specific in your questions,” Dean chuckles. “It might help.”

He sniffs the air, the wisps of various aromas freed to the air with every box Dean sets down. “How many did you buy?”

“A few. I got carried away, looking for the best ones that help with sleep.”

A surprised gasp escapes him when it clicks. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles. He’s done lining them up, but clearly doesn’t like being idle, so he starts opening some of the bagged ones. “Here, sniff.”

Castiel scoots closer to Dean until their hips almost meet and leans towards the extended offering. “Jo’s good with herbs. They have a huge garden behind The Roadhouse. So I did some gathering there and at the shops. We’ve got fresh chamomile, which I recall grandma made for us when we were kids.” 

At a loss for words, Castiel simply holds onto Dean’s hand and sniffs the herb in the bag, eyes locked to Dean’s face. “Rooibos, this one,” he says, patting his fingers to the back of Dean’s hand.

Dean shrugs on a brief smile. He flips one of the other ones over, scrutinizing it, fidgety under Castiel’s gaze. “Could be. Valerian root too apparently. I dunno, man, I don’t remember half of what Ellen and Jo said, but it should all help you find a better ni...”

He dips forward and kisses Dean. Again. Instantly worries that it is a mistake. This time around, the response isn’t deer-in-headlights, though still surprised. Hell, perhaps they should make a habit out of kissing more, then this wouldn’t feel so outlandish.

The bag is blindly set aside and suddenly Dean’s arm is around the back of his neck, his hand at his shoulder, and the heat of him is all-encompassing. They tilt sideways, hips bumping into the kitchen counter, and stay like that for a good while. Nothing escalates one way or the other, but he steals as many closed-lipped kisses as the moment allows, fingers buried in the fabric between Dean’s shoulder blades. When he squeezes down on the muscle, it elicits a deeper groan than anticipated.

Dean’s hand comes up to the side of his neck, when they break apart. His thumb presses to the cleft in his chin and they smile in stupid unison for a moment. “You’re welcome.”

“You haven’t made me my tea yet.”

“Let me get right on that.”

Sleep is about the furthest thing from his mind, to be honest. It’s all good though, when he finds himself at their kitchen table, a warm cup of freshly brewed tea between his hands, while they play footsie under the table.

“Maybe we should do more of this,” he says.

Dean’s tone is cheeky, while he blows over his tea, eyes alight. “Which part?”

“All… of it? Good practice… I mean, habits.”

He dreads to think what his dreams are going to be like.


	22. How This Could Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart nearly drops out of him when he opens the front door and sees Cas prone in the middle of the floor. He tosses the duffel and rushes over, falling to his knees next to him. Without hesitation, he presses his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse and lets out a strangled sound, when Cas shoots upright with a loud yelp.

His heart nearly drops out of him when he opens the front door and sees Cas prone in the middle of the floor. He tosses the duffel and rushes over, falling to his knees next to him. Without hesitation, he presses his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse and lets out a strangled sound, when Cas shoots upright with a loud yelp.

He pulls off his headphones, turning wide blue eyes on Dean, and grabs hold of his wrist. 

“Dean?! What the hell?”

“What the hell _me_? What the hell _you,_ man! Why are you on the floor?!”

Cas tilts his head at him, breathing faster than usual, and he looks dazed. He doesn’t let go of Dean’s wrist, brows knitting together as if it’s obvious. “I’m unwinding from school.”

“You… What…?” Perplexed, Dean sits on his haunches and lets his hand drop away, both now hovering, elbows against his knees.

“Too many people and their energies. Being one of the few Omegas doesn’t help.”

“Excuse me? Are those jackasses bothering you?”

“What jackasses? You don’t know any of them.”

“I’ve got a fair idea, Cas.”

“No,” Cas says. “No, no, it’s just… I’m a bit of a rarity so I get a lot of questions.”

“And opinions.”

“Questions about you too.” Dean keeps his face neutral, but Cas smiles, so he assumes it can’t be all bad. “It’s alright. I made a friend. His name is Balthazar. He’s British and very sarcastic. It helps to keep people away.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean huffs. Of course Cas gets adopted by some snooty Brit. And he hates not knowing the guy’s gender, but refrains from asking. He can fucking sniff him out, if he needs to. “Bring him along some time.”

Cas nods sweetly, not even remotely picking up on the jealous note in his voice.

“But this helps me to let some of that go.”

“What? Starfishing on the floor?”

Flustering, Cas shoots him A Look and ducks out of the moment by lying back down. Dean grins at his poor choice of words. Their tea ritual stands. So do the kisses. Goodbye kisses mainly, as good morning kisses are more of a rarity what with their mismatched schedules. A lot of them feel like ‘stay here’ kisses either way. It’s making him antsy, having to leave so often, because he’d like to stay in bed with Cas more, whenever they do share it. And then some.

“Grounding,” Cas says, pulling him back to the moment. “You should try it. You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders.”

To make his point, Cas closes his eyes and slows his breathing. One or other native drum tune drifts up from Cas’ headphones. Dean calms down sufficiently, bemused by the sight, and distracted by the potential of Alpha dicks harassing his Cas. And who this Balthazar is.

After a few more moments of consideration, he settles down on the floor perpendicular to Cas. His voice floats over, slightly nasal.

“What are you doing?”

“Talk me through this.”

It remains quiet for a few moments. 

“Okay… Roll your shoulders a few times and tuck them. Try to press your shoulder blades flush to the floor…”

“Christ, I think I can hear my spine…”

Cas laughs. “That is very likely. Now lift your ass…”

“Uh-huh,” he grins, knowing it’s an audible one.

Cas expertly ignores it. “... and lay back down so your spine levels out.”

An actual popping noise follows and the sensation of it shoots up his nervous system. It pulls a surprised, deep groan free. “Holy sh…”

“Oh, that was fast. Don’t worry. First time’s always a bit touchy.”

Dean’s leg shoots out and he manages to nudge Cas in the thigh. “You’re a riot, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.”

"Uh-huhmm, I think I prefer massages."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, they aren't touch- and other kinds of starved at all. Why do you ask? For some reason, I've enjoyed messing with their little domestic moments a lot.
> 
> Fam, I'm so tired. Too much going on and so little of it seems to be within my control, I'm just -_- and still getting used to meds. Ugh. How do some of y'all do this adulting so successfully?
> 
> Much love and continued patience for dealing with these two,  
> Mal


	23. Dance With You All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh,” he says. “That tune earlier!”
> 
> “Huh?”
> 
> “In the bar. The alien band. It’s the song you always whistle while you’re making tea.”
> 
> Charlie laughs. She’s draped across her end of the sofa, upside down, not a care in the world, least of all about her leg annoying the shit out of Lucifer, who showed up unannounced to their movie night. Castiel is pretty sure she’s doing it on purpose, but has no idea why Lucifer is allowing it to happen. Or why he’s here, besides his unconvincing ‘it’s a party and I can crash it if I want to’.
> 
> “Dude, you are such a dork.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chants while clanging pots and pans* Do-mes-tics! Do-mes-tics! Uhm, I always kinda regret throwing too many characters in one scene, but y'know, then stuff happens.
> 
> New shiny by Tanstaafl 💛
> 
> Hope you are all doing well.  
> Much love to you and yours,  
> Mal

Dean’s assessment for their roof garden was on point, he thinks, with no less than seven people, some of impressive size, scattered across the u-shaped garden sofa. Castiel didn’t expect to get his way when he tried to have movie night outside. Charlie helped set it up. A clear and dry night ahead, they might be stuck here for the next six to nine hours, if Dean intends to keep his end of that bargain. He’s staring at the screen, trying to stay focused, but he’s been distracted.

“Oh,” he says. “That tune earlier!”

“Huh?”

“In the bar. The alien band. It’s the song you always whistle while you’re making tea.”

Charlie laughs. She’s draped across her end of the sofa, upside down, not a care in the world, least of all about her leg annoying the shit out of Lucifer, who showed up unannounced to their movie night. Castiel is pretty sure she’s doing it on purpose, but has no idea why Lucifer is allowing it to happen. Or why he’s here, besides his unconvincing ‘it’s a party and I can crash it if I want to’.

“Dude, you are such a dork.”

“No, duh,” Dean says. “It’s Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes. Catchiest tune of the whole franchise.”

Castiel has to admit he’s right, because he’s had trouble expelling it from his mind. Not entirely enthralled by the action on the screen, he returns his attention to what’s kept him occupied throughout most of the first film. He got his hands on Dean more or less by accident, when his husband flopped onto his stomach and Castiel sidled up quickly. The second his hand wandered over Dean’s spine, he got an instant response and he’s been making a lot of noise ever since, either in deep approval or impatient hints. Castiel dutifully ignores those, while he takes liberties with Dean’s back and shoulders. Dean tugs at the hem of his shirt, as if he wants to take it off. When Castiel scoots closer and lets his hand slide under for a moment, there’s a low whisper.

“Are you _waiting_ for me to say the words?”

“Who, me?”

“Real cute,” Dean grumbles.

“Please, pretend none of us are here,” Anna sighs dramatically. “You’d think you guys would have plenty of time to get this kind of stuff out of the way while no one’s here.”

“You’d think so,” Castiel says with a hint of a bite to his voice. 

Anna actually knows better and she’s being a bit of a bitch, trying to provoke Dean into his husbandly duties. Oblivious or willfully ignorant, Dean just hangs there, sprawled on his stomach, letting Castiel do his thing, clearly something at war in that pretty head of his. How to get what he wants without actually saying it while their current company can hear it. Not on his watch, if Castiel can help it.

Dean has been unusually… oozy, for lack of a better word, and Castiel wonders to what extent said company is to blame for that. They are at once making matters more difficult and clearly putting Dean at ease, even with Lucifer in the mix. 

He smiles. Charlie’s reshaped herself into a human-sized pretzel, limbs now somehow touching both Sam and Anna, since Lucifer extracted himself from her to sit on Sam’s other side. Gabe’s taken up the center spot on the couch, stuffing his face with sweets. He can’t fault his husband for relaxing, because his Omega wants to bask in this strange blend of humans, both familiar and odd.

Castiel tilts his weight forward so he enters Dean’s peripheral, drawing one green eye’s attention to him. Sweetly, he cocks his head, putting as much love into his expression and words as he can, and whispers. “Use your words, handsome.”

Dean chuckles again and his gaze skitters past Castiel’s shoulder to Sam or Charlie, then away, as he waves a regal hand as if he’s content with what Castiel’s doing. And who knows? He might be. The way he responds to each of Castiel’s touches triggers his Omega something fierce, which is likely what has him parking himself on Dean’s ass, straddling him. It provides better access, he tells himself, when Lucifer chuckles.

And, oh, how that is very true in several ways.

The whined ‘Caaaaaas’ is so adorably flustered, he laughs, and slides his hands all the way under Dean’s shirt. Messes with the sleeves and lets out a sighed smile when that bares some of the tattoos. Only momentarily, because he doesn’t want the others to see them. They’re his, as infrequent as he gets to see them. He traces the lifeline down Dean’s arm to his wrist with his finger. Maybe it’s Dean noises or the persistence with which Castiel commits to teasing those out of him that cause Gabe to suggest his patented drinking game somewhere halfway through the second movie.

“Count me in,” Dean groans.

“Really? You look comfy,” Sam says smugly.

Dean waves a hand at his brother lazily. “I expect to be serv… ouch!” he yelps, when Castiel pinches a firm ass cheek and the next word comes out on an impressive growl. “Sweetheart… do you really think that’s smart?”

“Guests aren’t here to serve you, oh, mighty hunter,” he says, heart beating faster at the lovely rumbling and flexing muscles between his legs.

Sam lets out a sharp laugh, covering his mouth full of nuts, while he’s sitting down at the table with Gabe. “Give him half a chance, Cas. He likes being pampered.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean grumbles. “And _you…_ ”

Castiel’s smiling at Sam, but catches the movement from the corner of his eye, right before Dean bucks under him so he can flip over, hands sliding under Castiel’s shirt. He freezes, unsure where this is going, until Dean targets his sides with alarming speed and he squeals in terror when the tickling assault kicks in. He tries to squirm off Dean’s lap, but fails, the hunter unsurprisingly stronger. Instead, he ends up pressed against the pillows, Dean grinning at him while he reduces Castiel to nothing but hitched laughter and barely English protests. He’s pretty sure he hears Gabe cheer Dean on.

Eventually he manages to grab a hold of _one_ of Dean’s hands, peeling it to the side with what strength he can summon.

“Stop,” he wheezes. “Stopstopstop, I can’t…”

“No, you can’t,” Dean laughs. “Clearly. Haven’t heard you laugh like this before. I think I like it…”

“Noooo,” he wails. “Someone give him booze so he falls asleep!”

“There are quicker ways to get someone to sleep, Cassie,” Lucifer says. “Hold on…”

He looks sideways at his eldest brother and shakes his head, giggling helplessly through a surge of panic. “None of your dirty tricks, Lucifer!”

One of Lucifer’s long legs comes up and shoves at Dean’s thigh. It’s a sharp, sudden gesture, which alleviates some of his weight, throwing Dean off balance. Castiel channels the feline species as he oozes off the couch like water, scrambling out of reach. Charlie is quick to help his escape. He presses a hand to his wildly beating heart and _glares_ at Dean across the coffee table, where Gabe, Sam and Anna are pouring what looks like endless shots.

“Noes,” he says breathily between a few swallows, as if he’s talking to a bad puppy, “No tickles.”

Dean’s eyes are bright across the distance and he looks anything but contrite. He winks and Castiel groans, because even without scents in the mix, he knows this won’t be the last time. “Sure thing, Cas.” 

Dean sits up, straightening out his clothes, and Castiel’s _almost_ sad to see the inked skin covered up again. Until he spots Gabe’s shit-eating grin.

“Eyes on the screen,” he says. “Or the game.”

Dean laughs sweetly, scooting closer to the others, tapping two fingers to his temple. “Those-about-to-get-drunk, we salute you.” 

Drunk for no good reason, as far as Castiel is concerned. He’s not excessively fond of that kind of drinking and even less of the hangover the next day. Taking a big detour around Dean, because he doesn’t trust him right now, he slips back into the warm spot they made in their corner of the couch, awareness divided between the game and the movie. His gaze meets Lucifer’s for a moment and that’s when he’s surprised to notice his brother isn’t joining in.

“You’re not one to usually pass up this kind of debauchery,” he says.

Lucifer rolls his eyes, but leans back, visibly getting comfortable in the pillows. “Working tomorrow.”

“Then why are you even here at 3AM?” Charlie asks, though she doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead she cheers on Dean chugging three shots in a row. “Go, Squirrel, go!”

“I wanna know!” Castiel blurts out, drawing Anna and Sam’s attention.

“What?” Sam asks.

“The Squirrel nickname. Crowley called Dean that over dinner too. Is it a hunter thing?”

Dean shakes his head while he downs the last tumbler with a grimace and exhales harshly against the burn. “Uncle Bobby,” he says hoarsely. “Your turn, Charles.”

They’re rolling dice and playing cards. Castiel never got the hang of Gabe’s personalized game and suspects it is highly rigged. “Uncle Bobby?”

“Dude with the cap at the wedding,” Dean says. “He helped raise me ‘n Sam after dad died.”

“Calls us Squirrel and Moose,” Sam adds. “After that cartoon.”

“Ahh, that makes more sense,” Castiel smiles. “I was wondering if you turned into a squirrel on full moons.”

“Awww, you’d be so cute,” Anna smiles. ”Maybe an idea for Halloween?”

“You wish,” Dean laughs.

“Not you,” she teases. “Sam!”

“Also unlikely,” Sam snorts, eyeing her hands as she gestures antlers around his head.

Anna pouts. “I thought you hunters were supposed to be fun.”

“Oh, darlin’,” Charlie laughs. “Just you wait.”

“Oooh,” Gabe singsongs, making Anna down a tumbler Castiel’s pretty sure she’s not supposed to. “Big thing coming up?”

“Yes, though that’s about all I can say for now. Working out the venture negotiations.”

“Need help with that?” Lucifer asks.

She leans back towards him, resting her chin on his knee, as she winks. “Hardly, Morningstar, but it’s cute that you think I need help. Expect an invite for your extended family.”

Lucifer hums noncommittally. “Sure. I’ll clear my calendar.”

She clicks her tongue, smiling, and turns back to the game. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Castiel opens his mouth to try and wheedle info out of Charlie just to piss off Lucifer, when the sound of a phone cuts through the din. There’s that sluggish moment among those on the floor, the booze clearly having its effect, before Sam curses. “Shit, that’s mine.”

Instantly Dean gestures at Castiel. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, “My phone… in my hoodie.”

The hoodie is slung over the edge of the couch. He pats it down until he finds the device and tosses it over. Dean barely saves it from a lesser fate. “Fuck,” he groans. “She tried calling me too.”

Sam’s already dialing. Gabe lets out a protest as does Charlie. “No,” she says. “Not tonight, you guys.”

Dean’s gaze meets his, while he presses his phone to his ear, and his heart begins to fall. Within seconds, he’s getting to his feet - unstably - and Castiel narrows his eyes, shaking his head, while he leans forward. “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” Dean corrects him, index finger raised brattily. “Big difference.”

“You can’t go,” he says. “Whatever it is can wait.”

“Actually it can’t,” Sam says around a hiccup. He looks less affected, but then he has a few inches and some bulk on Dean. “A hostage situation.”

“A _supernatural_ hostage situation?” Anna asks, incredulous. “Seriously. We have cops for that.”

“Also known as possession,” Dean says and grunts, when Sam nudges him. They both look to Lucifer.

“I’ll drive,” Lucifer says without missing a beat.


	24. I'm Going Slightly Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a squirrel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild crack.
> 
> Queen to the rescue for this title, because Daemonia Nymphe was not prepared for this particular type of dream.
> 
> Get ready for some increase in pacing, narratively speaking. I'm hoping to include Mondays on the posting schedule as well. Yesterday was also so busy, I didn't post this. O.O Rare slip-up for me. Apologies.
> 
> I'm sorry, but not really?  
> Mal

“You’re a squirrel.”

“Uhh, yes.” A bristly flick of his tail. “I didn’t do this.”

“I’m talking to a squirrel.”

“Dude, I’m still an Alpha, if it helps.”

“A squirrel Alpha?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re adorable.”

“I know. Now make with the hazelnuts, man.”

Castiel extends his sinewy limb and the squirrel hops on, skittering up to his elbow, where it plants its fluffy bottom.

“Nuts?”

Tiny claws point at his other hand, before wringing together enthusiastically, and when he looks, he’s holding a bag of hazelnuts.

“I didn’t bring those here,” he says.

Settling the bag down between his long legs, he offers a handful to the mouthy squirrel. One set of wings tucks firmly against his back, while the four remaining ones curve around them like the back of a fluffy couch.

“I didn’t even know you could bring anything here.”

“Some of us can. But not sure whose doing that is. I’m gonna say yours, seeing as you’re clearly hungry.”

“I’m always hungry. And I had a busy night.”

“What merits such nightly activities?” He didn’t mean it to sound dubious, but it comes out as such anyway. “Uhh, sorry, that sounded more forward than I meant it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the squirrel quickly says. “Not after last time. Alpha, right? I take nightly excursions to burn off some of the energy.”

“What you keep under wraps during the day, you mean.”

Cheeks full, the squirrel nods and stuffs in a few more, bulging up impressively.

“Don’t choke.”

The squeaks he lets out sound like curses. Something sleazy perhaps, because apparently that’s the vibe of this dream. He was sure he meant to go somewhere peaceful, when he went to sleep, but he can’t deny the fuzzy feeling tumbling in his chest. Where his heart is supposed to beat quietly.


	25. Deo's Erotas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finds they stand as equals.

It doesn’t feel like anything he’s ever read. He’s sure it’s beyond anyone’s grasp, because he isn’t even in the real world, but the man behind him - his lips on that delicate spot of his shoulder, resting, worshiping, before something decidedly sinful joins in and he licks a trail up his neck - it all feels too real. He twists in his form, one pair of wings quivering downward, while the four top ones are spreading wildly in a display of… well, animal biology covers some of what that implies - his breath hitches as the defining aspect of this trails out of reach, but he responds. All of him. Not just his Omega or his wings or this strange ethereal state they find themselves in. And not _only_ him.

The pressure on him is real.

And when he pushes back, working his shoulder muscles, earning a playful nip at his earlobe, his Alpha catches on fast. Holds the space while Castiel turns around to face him, feathers cascading around them. Serenely, he accepts the blurred entity, curiosity abating to lap at his ankles, in favor of skirting his long, sharp fingernails over his abdomen. Of pulling him closer, until their foreheads touch. Their minds. Almost.

He finds they stand as equals.

As much as he adores words and abides by them in the waking world, he’s grateful for the tactile page they find themselves on. A conundrum in and of itself, because this world is beyond the veil, steeped in everything that is intangible, magical and stardust. Or should be.

But the teeth nibbling at his lower lip, pulling it taut, are anything but. His voice bounces against the edges of their pocket dimension, high and wanton. Muffled when his mouth is invaded, three fingers dipping into his other mouth, and he clutches on, spindly limbs and wings alike, wrapping themselves around this Alpha. Their combined breaths ratchet up while they move, little finesse, but smooth in this forgiving reality, prone to the strange and the perfect. Blessedly palpable, he soaks up the deep desire that rolls off his friend and crashes into his own, roiling around them. They’re not chasing anything, except perhaps their blurry and ever-changing edges. Instead finding purchase in each other’s sensitivities and vulnerabilities.

His climax is as sudden as it is liberating, and he melts into a pair of arms. Humanly tanned. Downy hair the colour of gold. He tries to find the face that may go with them, but the impression is fleeting, feathers tickling his skin, before he sinks deeper. Apparently even here, you can.

When he wakes up, he is at peace, his head pleasantly foggy. Cotton-balled. Stretches languidly, wondering why his muscles feel like they’ve truly gone through what he dreamt up. What they dreamt up. Flusters at the realization that they’re creating together. In a way. With a generous flavouring of the forbidden.

And a setting that only somewhere along the day registers disturbingly familiar with its moonlit waves and rocky waters. It isn’t until he has to face a smiling Dean, eager to start cooking together and asking about his day, that the guilt kicks in with a vengeance. Worse so when Dean makes him tea to ensure he sleeps well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dream for you! It might be a full moon where they are. Dreams always get more intense for me when it is. Don't go jumping to conclusions. 
> 
> I wonder if anyone was taking bets in which reality they'd get it on first?
> 
> Hugs!  
> Mal


	26. Be Legendary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s expression, hell, his whole body language can go from soft boyish innocence to stone-cold killer in a heartbeat, and he is learning at a frantic pace that apparently that combination gets his motor running? He just never expected to learn that in the middle of his college courtyard while watching his husband chase down a werewolf in broad daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Xs-wzsjcKk), provided by Tanstaafl, like many others by the way. She's been instrumental to this whole fic. I might have said this before, I might say it again. Instrumental. Also for my sanity.
> 
> Shiny also by her!
> 
> Let me know how this one landed ^^ it was fun to write.  
> Love,  
> Mal

Castiel meanders through the other students, deep in thought. Last class didn’t go so well, because he’s been preoccupied. It’s simple. He has to stop dreaming. Or dreamwalking with that - so very attractive - Alpha. Weird concept to be so drawn to someone whose face he doesn’t know, but what he _has_ seen is his soul. And it’s so beautiful, permeating his dreams with every sentiment and fancy that stories of old bring out in him. Full of possibility and dismissing boundaries.

Which is kind of the problem, right? Boundaries. 

Too many on the material plane, he thinks sourly, reliving how the Ethics professor called him out on being absent-minded. Addressed him in a way that was off, but so cleverly done, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He sensed it between the lines though. Out of place _unmated_ Omega. Ironic, considering the professor’s ‘expertise’. Apparently his husband signing the papers for his Omega means he’s as deviant as Castiel is for wanting a degree altogether. He defended himself, but has the sneaking suspicion that is going to cost him his grades. He may need to talk to Bal about this. Or Dean, but that’s for entirely different reasons that have little to do with an actual solution.

No boundaries whatsoever on the dream plane. Sighing, he looks to the blue skies. To a world beyond. He misses flying. A lot more than he wants to admit or think of, because on top of feeling like he doesn’t belong at this college, not being able to shake off these feelings by soaring among the stars makes him want to cry. So it is no wonder he wants to indulge.

“No,” he mutters. “Nope. It has to stop.”

You see, the reason he’s talking to himself is that his dream alter ego has ignored each of his waking hours’ resolutions. The second he closes his eyes, his mind skips ahead to the starry shores of the dream plane and seeks _him_ out. He doesn’t always find him, but spending his dreaming hours looking for him hardly counts as holding the boundary.

However it was _very_ cute, when he snuck up on Alpha in mid-jump. In his dreams, Alpha clearly likes to run. Fast and strong, often through trees the size of skyscrapers. Castiel finds himself wishing the surroundings wouldn’t change to his own familiars, the second he approaches, as if Alpha senses him. Charming as their meshing entities are, he’d like to see the dream in its pure form. Untouched by a dreamwalking, nosy angel.

“No, you don’t,” he huffs.

“Cassie! Which story are you reliving this time?”

He lets out a little squeak. Serves him right for sneaking up on Alpha to have Bal do the same to him. “No one!”

Bal smirks, when Castiel looks at him crossly. “No one, huh? You have to take me to meet your very impressive husband some day, if he can have you babbling to yourself while you should be heading for… Ecological Data and Statistics, I think? Which is that way.”

Castiel blinks furiously, his vision blurry, and looks around. “Right,” he mutters.

“Come on, dreamer,” Bal says. “How was Ethics?”

“Balls,” he blurts out, borrowing one of Dean’s favorite curses.

“Do tell.”

*

He’s gotten better at reading Dean. Not that the man’s a locked priceless medieval manuscript, but he isn’t exactly an open book either. There’s a shift in him that Castiel has taken note of, the first hints of which tend to seep into his gait the moment he’s off to a hunt. He can even tell whether it’s a big hunt or something minor, though he hasn’t fully pegged every nuance. How can he, when he’s only known Dean for a few months?

However.

Dean’s expression, hell, his whole body language can go from soft boyish innocence to stone-cold killer in a heartbeat, and he is learning at a frantic pace that _apparently_ that combination gets his motor running? He just never expected to learn that in the middle of his college courtyard while watching his husband chase down a werewolf in broad daylight.

The encounter is confusing and chaotic in ways he isn’t used to, which he’s sure robs him of a few choice impressions, but he’s rapt. Even while Bal is pulling at him to ‘get a bloody move on and _hide_ ’, Castiel fights him and dodges out of his hands when Dean comes running down the hallway.

How he even knows Castiel is right there among the other students is a miracle, but in the middle of firing two rounds at the full-blown werewolf to herd him _away_ from the squishy civilians, their eyes meet. There’s an angry pout to his lips as he fires the gun, its blasting sound loud, even among the din of panicking students. Castiel just stands there, part of him acutely aware of the livid, red-eyed monster coming straight for him, which even at this distance is terrifying. He freezes, dimly aware of Dean barking _something_ at him.

Until blood splatters and it howls, changing course, plaster shards coming off the wall when Dean takes another shot. Castiel flinches. And suddenly Dean’s growling makes it through, right before he reaches Castiel and jostles him, hand closing over his biceps painfully hard.

“Goddamnit, Cas, _MOVE_!”

He clutches on to Dean, whose heat radiates off him, and stutters out a curse. “You’re bleeding! Again!”

Dean shoots him the most wicked smile yet, eyes ablaze, and winks, manhandling him into moving. “Not mine, but, honey, you gotta hide. We’re not do… Yeah,” he snaps, voice going from warm to firm in a syllable as he presses a hand to the ear piece. “Yeah, no, I got him in the shoulder. Running west towards the cafeteria. What? Yeah, it’s Cas… N… I’m _not_ distracted. Fuck you. Uh- _huh_ , yeah, how about you move _your_ ass, Fangs.”

“Dean, no,” he shout-whispers, when Dean disentangles from him, and barrels into his space to hug him. “Be careful.”

“Hey,” Dean says, palm to the back of Castiel’s neck in a heartbeat. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I got this. ‘S what we do.” He grins cockily and Castiel thinks he might melt to a puddle. Nodding frantically, his throat constricts. “Now do me a favour and listen for once. Hide.”

He can almost feel his ghost-wings bristle at the tone. Watches Dean run off. His nose twitches. His insides go tight and melting hot at once. Shoves his nose to the air, picking up on what he assumes is adrenaline. Sweaty fur. He tilts to the balls of his feet, then back, hesitating on that razor’s edge.

And trails after Dean.

An explosive voice floats up to him from behind, borderline snarling, and he jumps, almost dropping his backpack. “Cassie! Did you _not_ hear what the pretty man said?!”

“The _man_ is my husband,” Castiel says, glancing sideways at Balthazar.

“Well, that makes it alright, I suppose,” Bal says, sarcasm heavy as a brick. “At least you’re not in the habit of throwing yourself at strangers.”

“I did no such thing!” he hisses, as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “And I don’t see you turning back either.”

“Ha,” his friend sighs. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it? But I don’t think I can.”

“Fine. Keep up.” He starts jogging towards the cafeteria, Bal right behind him.

“Up there,” Balthazar says. “On the roof. Who’s that?”

“Holy hell,” he exhales roughly. “That’s Benny. How is he even scaling that distance so fast?”

“Your other husband?” Bal asks, breathing heavy.

“What?” he splutters, shoving open the emergency exit, while they ignore the outpouring of stampeding students through the main double doors. “No! One of Dean’s friends.” 

He catches the sound of growling down the hall, leading _away_ from the cafeteria to the little picnic area out front with a view of the waterway that marks the college grounds boundary, and turns the corner without hesitation - which, all things considered, is really off, but the semi-critical thought is blown to bits at the sight before him.

“Good Lord,” Balthazar whispers. “He’s…”

Dean’s on the beast’s back, is what he’s seeing, and he doesn’t know _how_ his husband does it, but the monster goes down under his weight. He pins it with his knee between the shoulder blades, arm extended.

“Ketch!” Dean roars.

An older man he hasn’t met yet throws Dean an item, which he can’t make out at this distance. Castiel runs closer, almost tripping himself up as he wants to get another look at the werewolf. As if sensing him, Dean glances over his shoulder. Not a sound, but his face contorts in anger, teeth bared around one end of the item, before he turns back to his struggling opponent and slams what Castiel now recognizes as a syringe in his neck.

“Got him,” Dean pants, spitting out the syringe cover, as he pushes the beast down to leverage himself up.

The werewolf snarls and growls, slashing at Dean’s legs, and flings the syringe from its neck. It lands dully in the grass. Dean backs off towards Castiel, hand reaching out, and his heart quivers when Dean’s furious eyes hit with physical intensity. His cheeks burn as if he’s been slapped. Something molten stirs low in his gut. 

Neither one of them speaks, instead they look at the werewolf, whose form is doing that creepy horror movie thing Lucifer’s fond of, where it moves so erratically it’s no longer of this world. Skin peels and twists, as fur is swallowed back into his body abhorrently. His spine and joints crack audibly and Castiel shudders, when the werewolf, his face now caught between two species, looks up directly at him, one eye brown, another bright red. Nostrils flaring, it clearly caught a scent.

Dean lets out a warning sound and their dynamics clash. He grabs hold of Dean, while Dean tries to shove him off and out of the path of danger, when the werewolf lunges _for Castiel_. He yells and another kind of instinct kicks in, as he lets the backpack drop from his shoulder and swings it in an upward arc into the were’s chin. College books are heavy, okay? Heavy enough to stop the beast in its tracks and send Castiel falling backwards on his ass, Balthazar cushioning the worst of his fall, while Dean shoves the beast.

The creature stumbles, limbs not quite behaving how they’re supposed to, and whines sadly as it sinks to one knee, its form reduced more and more to its human form. Blood oozes from a shoulder that looks like it’s been pulled through the meat grinder down his arm into the grass.

Castiel gets back on his feet. On either side, Dean and Bal gawp at him for a few seconds, until the were snarls, a strangely animalistic sound torn through an all too human throat. Bal curses, while he grabs for Castiel and his backpack, tugging at both.

“Pardon me, but,” Bal says urgently, while both he and Castiel scramble backwards, “... _why_ is he still growling? You changed him back!”

“Only physically,” Dean says, then barks at his fellow hunter. “Ketch, lower the damn gun!”

“Give me one good reason, darling,” Ketch says, moving in a sideway arc so no one’s caught in the crossfire. “Unregistered Alpha werewolf. I’m surprised you bothered with the syringe. You usually don’t.”

Giving Ketch a one-shouldered shrug in reply, Dean casts a furtive glance at Castiel, before he lifts both hands at the naked man. Rising to his full length, he catches the were’s eye. The creature is horrendously disoriented, yet still leering at Castiel.

“Buddy,” Dean says, stepping in front of Castiel, pointing two fingers at his face, then at the wolf. “Eyes on me, alright?”

He wants to reach out, but Balthazar pulls him back. “Damnit, Cassie, let him do his job!”

A stricken sound is wrenched from him, because he doesn’t want to let Dean face this threat alone. Never mind that Ketch is there and Benny joins the triangle net that’s closing around the werewolf, a wicked, serrated blade in hand. He wonders if it’s silver like the stories advise.

“Castiel!” Benny grunts. “Back off! You’re distracting the wolf.”

He’s… What?

Defeated at the confusing accusation, he gives in and goes with Bal. The tension immediately eases out of Dean’s shoulders and the hunter is able to fully focus on the were. With slow gestures, he advances, palms and wrists so vulnerable as he bares them.

“This ain’t you, buddy. Omegas aren’t for chasing down and humans aren’t for eating. You know that, right?”

The man whines, eyes flickering between the three hunters, surrounding him. Leaning to one side, he tries to get eyes on Castiel again. Another pathetic whimper that swells to a snarl. Dean huffs out a fatigued sigh which grows into a matching rumble.

“Come on, work with me. You’re just… having a _really_ bad day.”

Castiel lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “You’re negotiating with a werewolf,” he says. “Why are you negotiating with a werewolf?!”

Dean flashes him a smile over his shoulder. “Someone’s been telling me animals aren’t just an ‘it’.”

“This is _not_ what I meant!”

“Oh, good Lord,” Ketch huffs, as he lifts his gun.

“Don’t!” Benny snaps. “Witnesses!”

“Ketch! PR!”

The Brit’s trigger finger twitches at the last word and he clicks his tongue, lips pressed into a tight line as his body eases up. “Bollocks. Get the bloody hell on with this instead of flirting with your Omega.”

“Cas, sweetheart, back up a bit and put on some blockers, will you?”

“But I’m wearing…”

“Cas!”

“Okay, okay,” he snarls.

He rummages through his stuff to do as he’s told, hating every tense second of it. When he’s done, he endures the expectant glances bouncing from him to the were and back, Dean holding his live shield position. Eventually Castiel gives an impatient gesture. “... Now what?”

The answer comes in the form of the were landing on the grass with a thud, the fight going out of him. 

“What the…?”

Ketch strides forward, getting out cuffs, while Benny digs up a blanket to cover the man up. Castiel sneaks closer again, wanting to be near Dean, a tight feeling in his chest, because Dean’s not looking at him.

“Kiddo,” Benny says to Balthazar. “You look like a senior.”

“Your point?” Bal asks. 

“There’s kids sneaking closer and we don’t need that. Think you can make yourself useful?”

“I’ve hardly been useful in my life,” Bal quips. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man.”

Castiel closes his hands around his backpack automatically when Bal shoves it in his arms and suffers the annoyed ‘what on earth, Cassie?’ look, before Bal leaves to shoo off onlookers. His guilt is growing rapidly.

“Are you almost in heat, by any chance?” Ketch asks.

The question so inappropriately at odds with the moment, Castiel scoffs and eyes the unfamiliar man, dressed to the nines. Another Brit, but a lot less charming than Balthazar or even Crowley. 

“What’s it to _you_?” he snaps, provoking a low chuckle from Benny.

Next to him, Dean straightens up, unsettlingly quiet. Looking less than amused, Ketch puts his hands at his hips, coat pushed back by his wrists, flashing the jacket's fancy inner lining. “The were was coming for you.”

Castiel shakes his head, thoroughly bewildered, and tries to line up what his (admittedly impending) heat has to do with anything.

“That’ll do, Ketch,” Dean bites, handling his gun, an eye on Benny and the were.

“He ran towards danger, Dean, in case you failed to notice, _and_ distracted you,” Ketch says. “Are you training him to be a hunter?”

“Trust me, I noticed,” his husband says tightly, “And no, I’m not or he wouldn’t have done something so stupid.”

“Hey!” Castiel exclaims. “Mind your tone!”

“Easy now. This guy isn't fully out and we don't want to agitate him,” Benny chides and what passes for a conversation falls instantly flat.

When neither Castiel or Dean are forthcoming or even looking at each other, Castiel sighs and glares daggers at the nosy Brit. Ketch’s face does a subtle, disdainful thing, one eyebrow and corner of his mouth twitching.

“Look, pet,” he says. “Just because you’re on the pill doesn’t mean you’re not broadcasting pheromones, when you’re close to your heat, and there are species out there that don’t care a fig for blockers. It pays to heed a hunter’s advice.”

Castiel can’t breathe, his brain hung up on various parts of the exchange, not in the least the invasive nickname and assumptions about his body and anticonception. Castiel’s nose is filled with that familiar burning scent in less than a heartbeat, a low growl reverberating from Dean, as _his_ voice slips into the same timbre. Dean’s hand snatches out and fists into Ketch’s collar. “Do not address _my husband_ with ‘pet’.” 

“It’s a term of endearment. Charming, really,” Ketch smiles thinly, looking more concerned than Castiel would have expected based solely on the levels of arrogance.

“Only if you’ve earned the right,” Castiel says, his voice shaky.

“Why don’t you go spread that debatable British charm around for PR purposes? It’s why Mary hired you.” He shoves Ketch off balance as he lets him go, shoulders flexing with barely controlled anger.

Adjusting his clothes calmly, Ketch gives Castiel another once over, before he struts off. It takes a few moments until the oxygen returns to the air around them.

“He’s responsible for PR?” Castiel quips, trying to lighten the mood.

“Hard to believe, I know,” Benny admits. “But he’s a silver-tongued devil as soon as there’s a mic or a camera involved. Useful. In the day to day, y’know, like normal people, a lot less so.”

“Clearly,” Castiel nods, inexplicably nervous.

“Though he had a point,” Dean says, as soon as Ketch is fully out of earshot. His eyes are glued to Ketch’s back or whatever he’s staring at in the distance, jaw clenching angrily, and then he looks at Castiel, gaze burning like fire. “I told you to hide.”

He meets the inferno head-on, jutting out his chin. “You did.”

“Yeah, so why don’t you fucking listen?” Dean barks, teeth flashing.

“Came off the line with a crack in my chassis,” he snaps right back, when Dean makes himself bigger. “Bad Omega. If I plan to do anything else stupid, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s not what I…”

“You said it anyway!”

In an effort to control himself, Dean’s jaw does that pretty thing again, tongue flicking over his lips, and it distracts and angers Castiel in equal measure. Why is he so easily distrac… Oh. He rubs his eyes, groaning softly, when realization hits. His heat. He has a partner to focus those urges on now and instantly shies away from the dream encounters with his Alpha. The Alpha. Fuck. His mind jumbles into a hot mess of expectations and wants and...

“Aren’t you two adorable?” Benny says on a scoff as he rises to his feet, the were secured and covered up to his chest.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I guess.”

Dean just glowers. Castiel’s eyes are drawn down to his crossed arms, the gun in the holster pressed to his ribs and the thigh holster. A string of inappropriate blasphemies blare through his mind with the strength of a fog horn.

“Lemme translate what Prince Charming is trying to say,” Benny sighs, clapping a hand to Dean’s shoulder. It jolts Dean out of his scowling and the two of them angle towards each other. “Your husband over here tends to have singular focus while hunting. Hates it when anything distracts him, because he usually knows exactly what needs to happen when. Or at least pretends to."

Castiel looks at Benny. The man has a pleasant face with kind eyes and the way he and Dean move around each other suggests familiarity. Perhaps more. He sucks his lip in, teeth digging into the flesh, unsure when he reassesses their body language. Dean relaxes a touch, his hip tilting to Benny, as he takes some of his friend’s weight. He ducks his head, none of his simmering anger easing up, and Castiel wants to step into his orbit. Touch him. Claim his territory. A very selfish and hypocritical sentiment to have, all things considered.

“Y’know what he hates most of all, cher?”

“Benny,” Dean drawls on a warning.

“Loved ones getting hurt.” There’s something between the lines he can’t hear right now, but the overall message rings loud and clear. “So when he says ‘hide’, it ain’t cause he thinks you’re not strong enough…”

“He just thinks he’s stronger,” Castiel says primly. Because fuck this Alpha bullshit, even if Dean isn’t. Ketch makes up for it and wasn't Benny one too?

Benny laughs, his eyes turning to dark slits, canines prominent, and he shoots Dean a bit of a look. “Well, he’s got you there. I tried, brother.”

“‘Preciate it,” Dean grouses, then catches himself and tracks a heavy look over Castiel's body. He juts his chin out curtly. “You okay?”

Castiel knows it’s a caring question, but the neanderthal way it comes out sets his hackles up. “I’m fine,” he grumps. “Man didn’t even get near me.”

“Well, no,” Dean hums, eyes finally catching his. “Cause I shot him before he could.”

He nods, the situation suddenly sinking in. A cold tremble starts under his sternum. “Does that require a thank you? You hurting another being for my sake.”

“Not just yours, sweetheart,” Dean says casually, voice going oddly flat. “And no, I don’t expect gratitude. As long as you don’t expect me to stop taking the saving shot.”

He doesn’t know what to say, looking at the all too human man on the grass, and something miserable stirs in his gut. “Is he okay?”

“Don’t worry, cher, the shoulder wounds are through and through and werewolves tend to see worse in their lives.”

“As if that makes it okay. What’s going to happen to him?”

Benny and Dean do that annoying inner circle exchange of glances. “He didn’t hurt anyone, so it shouldn't be too bad, but he’ll be going into the system.”

“Unregistered,” Castiel says. “They’ll collar him. He’ll get assigned to someone. Be forced to work...”

“That’s about the best outcome he can expect after running rampant onto a college campus,” Dean says. His whole face ripples when he says the words with an emotion that’s the opposite of the cold tone.

“What did Ketch mean with ‘you usually don’t’? Bother with the syringe?”

Benny sighs, but holds his tongue, when Dean ignores the question. “Can we not, Cas? You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, but he knows he isn’t. The chill spread through his whole body and he’s caught in uncontrollable shivers, as he comes down from whatever high he was on. “I’m…” His voice breaks annoyingly and he lets out an angry sound.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, timbre slipping into something pleasantly honeyed that draws his Omega in. “I’m sorry we couldn’t prevent him from barging onto your campus. Shit like this shouldn’t happen.”

“It’s fine,” he says again, but the words sound empty. Dean’s gaze is on him, softer by now, but he doesn’t want to meet him.

“How ‘bout this?” Dean almost whispers. “I’ll take the weekend off to make up for this…”

And he knows Dean means more with ‘this’ than just the werewolf. He searches out Dean’s face gingerly, blinking against the tears that threaten to form. “He was right,” he whispers back.

“Hmm?”

“About my heat. I… I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I mean… Is it true? That so many species can… pick up on that…?”

“Hell,” Dean hisses, eyes widening as his cheeks heat up and he grabs Castiel’s hand, giving reassuring pressure, “Don’t apologize for that, Cas. Jeez, it’s okay.” 

“But is it true?”

“Kinda,” Dean winces. “Your average Alpha can sniff out a lot. Werewolves are closer to our wolf kin, so they’re even better at it.”

“Vamps too,” Benny offers idly, earning a scowl from Dean. “What? It’s true.”

“Anyway,” Dean huffs. “Ketch is a dick. He shouldn’t be prying or trying to blame you. It ain’t your fault.”

“Isn’t he your colleague?”

“Hnyeah,” Dean grunts. “Still a dick. Mom assigned him to our crew.”

“I’m sorry…” He hates it when he can’t stop apologizing, but Dean still looks put out.

“It’s alright.” Dean runs a hand through his hair with a weary sigh, the dried blood on his sleeve looking like it might never come out. "Benny.. "

"I got this, brother. You two go on now."

Unsure, Castiel chews his lip non-stop, until Dean tilts his head towards the world on the other side of the college walls. 

“I still have class,” he mutters.

Dean lets out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “Really, Cas? I don’t want you staying here.” His hand closes around Castiel’s arm, as he takes his backpack from him and slings it over his shoulder. That’s when he realizes he’s still shaking.

“Oh, I hate this,” he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Well, how often do you run into a werewolf?”

Castiel scoffs at the tentative humour, but Dean’s wink is off and his eyes are doing that sad trick. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sounding like a true Winchester,” Benny calls after them. 

Dean laughs mirthlessly at the words. On the way to Baby, Castiel sticks to a reluctant, slow pace, considering his options. Back to class or go home. Dean quietly curls his hand into Castiel’s, looking oddly at peace while Castiel is almost certain he’s anything but. The silence stretches out until Dean opens the car door, her creak loud.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with me?” Dean asks. “Let me drop you off at home on the way to the vet.”

No point if you’re not gonna be there, he thinks, so he shakes his head. “The vet?”

“What we like to call the creature center Benny’s taking him to.”

“Hilarious.” He tugs at Dean’s sleeve, as he takes his backpack from him. “Not sure if we still have enough toothpaste to get all those stains out.”

Dean glances at his arm with halfhearted interest and shrugs. “Don’t matter.”

He fusses, cause right now it does matter as it’s easier to deal with that than the scare they got. “We can’t keep replacing your shirts. Maybe lemon works.”

“Only on fresh blood,” Dean counters.

“If it’s fresh and you’re cleaning it, might as well put it in the damn machine.”

Dean’s reluctant laugh makes his heart less heavy and they look at each other. The air between them is fragile, a lot like whatever emotion is dancing in Dean’s eyes he can’t peg.

He leans in, nosing at his cheek, and presses a kiss to his temple. “See you at dinner, hunter,” Castiel says softly.

“Uh-huh,” Dean hums. “Thanks for the note.”

“Note?” he asks, but his penny drops the same second and he smiles genuinely, remembering the stupid little drawing he made of Grumpy Cat to wish Dean tasty noms. “Oh, in your lunch.”

Dean’s eyes narrow slightly, taking stock of Castiel, and he thumbs at his chin, fingers trailing to his neck. Castiel’s breath hitches under the cherishing gesture, a mute thank you, before Dean gets in Baby and drives off.


	27. Tongue-Tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You havin’ a moment there, Angel?” he drawls, moving his weight from one foot to the other, the heel clicking when he lands it, and suddenly Castiel is stuck on the subtle jiggle that sets off in those ass cheeks.
> 
> “How did you get in here?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another exception to the rule for the title, due to slight weirdness, but mainly indulgence on Cas' part, with [Earl's Tongue-Tied](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Kj2_bGe3lo) as the title song. Had good fun again writing this dream!
> 
> Hugs and I dunno, go bounce around to the music maybe, if you feel like it <3  
> Mal

“What the actual fuck?” the by now familiar voice says.

Two wings shooting up to hide him from sight, Castiel grips the arms of the chair hard enough that he might tear them right off. Privacy isn't sacred. Not even here. He peeks between his secondaries to check if he’s seeing things. If this moment really just escalated even further beyond the edges of reason. 

It did. And he’s there. Standing on an elevated round platform, or stage rather, is his Alpha friend in a matte leather Batman outfit. A very skimpy Batman outfit, mind you, and he’s got his gloved hand curled around a shiny pole that stretches from floor to ceiling. How he’s balancing on those stunning, thigh high, stiletto-heeled boots is a mystery, but it lends a beautiful tilt to his hips and accentuates the curve of his back. He can’t tear his eyes away, even through his feathers, and apparently they do nothing to hide the heat of his gaze.

“You havin’ a moment there, Angel?” he drawls, moving his weight from one foot to the other, the heel clicking when he lands it, and suddenly Castiel is stuck on the subtle jiggle that sets off in those ass cheeks.

“How did you get _in_ here?!”

He laughs, a generous sound that has Castiel leaning in, his primaries quivering in anticipation. They want to envelop this glorious creature. His protective wings fan open, revealing him to Alpha. Billowing up around them from all sides are swelling notes of music. Something quick and upbeat. Playful.

“I dunno, man, but I’m game.”

“Wh… What? You are?”

He inhales sharply when his Alpha turns on the ball of his foot, one leg bent at the knee, that foot hooked behind his calf; balancing himself against the pole. “Not sure how much of a dancer I am, but maybe there’s some magic to work with.”

He gestures at their surroundings. In the wake of his gesture, tiny dancing lights appear, followed by colourful sparkles that cast the both of them in a warm, pulsing glow of gold, red and blue, melting to indigo.

_My boy is mad hot_

_One touch I’m shell-shocked_

_Makes my heart foxtrot_

_Non-stop_

The music rushes through his feathers, notes flitting around as if they’re guiding them both, but Alpha most of all, as he begins to dance. He isn’t exactly flexible, but he knows his way around his own body and music. The suit should make everything more ridiculous and whenever he _thinks_ about it, it kinda does, but he’s soon too mesmerized. By the dips and curves at first, while he builds his rhythm. The intense, red eyes within the mask.

_Could’ve been a one night stand, oh man_

_Could’ve been a passing thing_

_Just a little boom boom bang_

_But we keep going again, going again, oh!_

The ripples going through the muscled parts of him he can see. Those shoulders really should be bare, he thinks, as he licks his lips. A giddy feeling clouds up his head, as if he’s tipsy, the unsubtle and nonsensical words baddabinging against the edges of their bubble. His hips stutter when across the distance, energy zings as Alpha dips his hands between his legs and Castiel can feel it between his own. He stutters out a surprised groan, Alpha’s deep laughter in his ears.

And suddenly he’s there. Smack in front of him, warm hands on Castiel’s arms. The shallow hip thrusts are a dim echo of the real world he’s kept at bay, now in full swing. He bows his head, inhaling until he’s trembling, the essence of _him_ beyond language, and leans forward, nose pressed to the soft hair that peeks out of the leather pants. The sound Alpha releases is equal parts growl and whine. It sends his feathers aflutter, when he feels the hot gaze on him, and his wings possessively come up and around.

“Which face do I focus on?”

“Middle one?” he says dumbly. “No one ever asked me that before. They’re all me.”

“Wicked. And kinda hot…”

He snorts softly, bemused by scent and the tangible alike.

“Want me to touch you?” he asks, tilting his heads up.

The affirmative comes in both sound and thought. One tongue laves out to taste Alpha’s sweat, another nips at the hip bone. His reward is a bump in the nose and hands scrabbling at his shoulders, as Alpha presses closer to him with a rough ‘fuck, yes’. They move in sync now, hands chasing hip, arm, abdomen. Fingers trail stubble, thumbing at lips. He sucks the offered digit into his mouth, coaxing Alpha into a kiss with another, and into his lap by the will of his wings, pressing them together.

_I scoop that ice cream,_

_He licks the plate clean_

_No time just more please, striptease_

_Wanna another helping hand, oh man_

_Polish every room we can_

_Yeah we gotta do the damn thing,_

_Keep ya mama coming again, coming again._

The energy of them sends his heartbeat reaching for the heavens once more. Somewhere along the way, it shifts. Suddenly and undeniably, when he’s pushed out of his chair by a gust of wind. His wings or someone’s intent, but Alpha materializes behind him, hot and solid. Leather gloved hands slide over his back to his hips. They hold still there, forcing him to a storm’s quiet for palpable seconds. He glances between his feathers, perhaps a touch coy, the hue of his eyes scattering across them and the planes of a masked face. Quick puffs of breath materialize and mingle. The Omega whimper he releases with it is conscious. A taunt. A request, eagerly met. His breath is knocked out of him, when Alpha’s hips slam into his ass to the beat. Two hits in rapid succession and his body goes with the raw strength, hands snatching out to balance himself on the chair. Hold himself in place as he grinds back against Alpha.

“One hell of a dancer,” he breathes out.

_This heat it won't stop_

_He makes me jackpot_

_My eyes are blood-shot, dumb-struck_

_Think we've got a perfect ten, oh man_

_And every bit of luck we can_

_‘Cos I got my ace in hand_

_Can we go round again, round again?_

“Think we can do that thing again?” Alpha whispers lowly.

“That thing?” he slurs, mouths horridly dry. He bends forward further, flirting with the boundary of presenting as he lets out a teasing whimper.

“Y’know…” There’s a flash of a crooked smile, he senses it on the air, groans when the weight of Alpha drapes over his back, somehow heedless and careful among his all too accommodating, eager wings.

“Oh, that,” he smirks, his being lighting up with grace-fuelled mischief. “I’d like that.”

Eyes falling shut, Castiel bares his throat and whines, a drawn out sound, as Alpha licks a hot trail up his neck. Strong hands grab onto his shoulders, one sliding to the back of his head. It fists into his hair, even though in this form, that doesn’t quite compute. But the sting is there. Another hand to his chest, holding him in place, when they are at the snap of a finger bare. Everything goes delectably sweaty and slick in a few heartbeats. Their bubble is pounding with the intensity of it.

“Heavens, harder,” he snarls.

A lovely, sleazy chuckle makes his ears glow hot and he turns. He has to see whatever there is to see. A glint of white teeth, canines elongated. There’s a vague inkling that he knows the jawline and absurdly Michael Keaton springs to mind. His fingers trail across planes of muscle, slipping under the leather harness. Alpha’s hands close around the scapula of his top wings and he cries out at the touch of fingers, slipping between the downy feathers. Searching, as if he knows how sensitive they are. His breathing goes ragged instantly.

_My finger's followin'_

_A tattoo of angel wings_

_This devil starts to grin_

_Cos I'm his favourite kinda sin_

The laws of this world have them tilting backwards, the chair swaying to the point of butterflies, holding them on that precipice. His wings fold around the both of them, a multitude of black feathers, lit up with stardust, caressing their skin. When they tip over backwards, they tumble, bodily entwined so they don’t lose each other, intimately connected. The act mutates into something else and he surrenders so willingly and easily to the depths of this bond, it should scare him. He should question it, but down here, he can’t. His skin tingles with every mark left behind by blood sucked to the surface and teeth grazing, every hand he places on golden skin, hoping to leave behind a print in turn.

_This must be love_

_‘Cos every night our words are tongue-tied up_ _  
_

_Pillow talk just sounds like double dutch_

_Like we drank too much, yeah once we touch_

_Oh woh oh oh_

_Words come out like…_

“More,” Alpha whispers. “Give me more…”

And he _feels_ the need in those words, his own toppling into the near endless want along with Alpha, as if they're one. His grace lights up brightly, kaleidoscoping between his feathers, as they tumble, lost to all possible worlds.


	28. Daemonos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He speeds up, catching scent of both the killer he’s hunting and.. And… his charge? Someone he’s meant to protect. At all costs.
> 
> You see, he promised. He really meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: angst, blood, dream character death.
> 
> *coughs* Our boys responded very differently to that college-werewolf experience. Give Dean some hugs, yeah?
> 
> (For those expecting one of those 'lost control during heat' tropes, so sorry, not that kind of story.)
> 
> Love,  
> Mal

There are walls everywhere and each of them is closing in on him, and he has to _move_. Faster than this, because if he doesn’t… If he doesn’t… A deep growling reverberates and bounces off his surroundings. Predator. Killer. _Demon_. He’s equal parts panic and fury, but he doesn’t know why beyond pure instinct. His mouth is flooded with saliva, while he breathes in as deep as he can, trying to catch the scent… thescentthescent, that deeply fragile and heart wrenching scent that’s about to be ripped to shreds and shatter if he doesn’t _get there in time_.

He shifts to his demon form, a writhing, terrifying black mass of rage and muscle, muting his fears and releasing all he has to succeed. To have and hold the upper hand. To rip apart whoever gets in his way. The very air around him becomes denser. Hotter too, while his core extends outwards, blackens and slithers around him like sentient oil. His vision goes blood red, nostrils flaring, as he growls, announcing his arrival with murderous glee.

Howls, when the surroundings bend to his considerable, Alpha will and bow out of his way. He speeds up, catching scent of both the killer he’s hunting and.. And… his charge? Someone he’s meant to protect. At all costs.

You see, he promised. He really meant it.

Though he never expected to speak such words, he remembers that promise, crisp and pure and... It’s all that matters. He has to make it in time, but he’s not going as fast as he can. He’s not doing enough. Pushing against the boundaries of his own being, his heart goes into overdrive, when he hears a terrifying, elated howl. It swells so loud and palpable, his ears hurt, and his vision blurs, but he keeps running.

The surroundings shift abruptly into a tight, little space, walls higher than he can see, covered in blood. Handprints.

His form shifts and his boots slip on the black tiles, the scent of iron an assault on his senses.

“Cas,” he yells. “CAS!”

Too late. He knows he’s too late, but he runs and falls to his knees next to the prone form of his husband, torn to shreds, but still breathing.

He pulls him onto his thighs, hands cupping Cas’ head. It rolls over too far like a ragdoll, as Cas lets out a wet, reedy sound, bubbles forming on his lips. They move and Dean bends closer to hear him. His throat is slashed, so nothing follows, but he tries to reach for him, gather Cas’ parts back together, save him. He promised. 

Dean’s insides shatter. Excruciatingly slowly, he breaks apart, the sounds he hears alien to his own ears, though he knows he’s making them. Little, broken sobs that echo against the bloodied walls, because he wasn’t there. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t…

When he howls, he’s no longer himself. He is only what others have said. Alpha. Abomination. Demon. Monster. The rest of him is hollow.

Waking up, he squints, because hell, it’s too bright outside and he knows he overslept. His head is pounding, while he sifts through the vague recollections of a dream that's already slipping out of his grasp, except for one thing. Cas.

Cas, who is at school, while Dean's phone is blinking at him impatiently. He ignores it for a few moments, rubbing at his eyes. Staring at the ceiling, he sits with the effects of the dream. He saved Cas. Or Cas saved himself, let's be fair, because Dean was not at the top of his game. His Alpha was distracted. Still is, even while Cas is at college, and the remnants of his repressed heat linger in the apartment. Cas gets cuddly, but his meds seem to make his heat tolerable. Well, Cas gets horny too, if the scent he caught a few mornings ago was anything to go by. His stack of porn is still on the coffee table, so it hardly feels like Cas should hide. Calling him out seems wrong. He’s not sure if it was guilt or just awkwardness, but if Cas wants to masturbate himself through his heat, who's Dean to deny him? He has never been around an Omega in full heat, so he only has the basics to go on, and something tells him they're about as close to reality as the general opinions on Alphas.

He guesses he's dealing with it well. Though he has thought of calling his doctor, he hardly sees the point. Likely the man will tell Dean that, yes, living with an Omega will prove more taxing than not living with one and suggest to up his dosages or add another pill to the bunch. Besides, Cas deserves to be safe and that, at least, is something Dean can provide.

When he finally checks his messages, his mood sours further when it turns out he's getting his orders directly from Naomi now.


	29. A Freight Train Runnin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Work again?”
> 
> “Sam,” he says. “He’s got tonight covered, but he keeps harassing me.”
> 
> A sigh of relief and in the corner of his eye, Cas relaxes, dipping back into his spread. “Harassing, even. Why?”
> 
> “Because he wants picture proof I’m letting you eat in Baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boss' [I'm On Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrpXArn3hII) for title song.
> 
> Another shiny halfway, by Tanstaafl ^^ I am a spoiled brat in many ways.
> 
> Going in for two interviews today. Fingers crossed.
> 
> Hugs to you and yours. Hope you're safe and sound.  
> Mal

“What do you mean, an intruder?” Cas asks.

His eyes are glued to the food in the plastic tray on his lap, as he harks back to an offhand comment Dean made earlier. Tonight’s take-out dinner was Cas’ choice. “Why do you look so happy, lining up balls of rice with raw fish?”

“The same way you look happy, drooling over a slab of barbecued meat over two pounds.”

“Hey, now, one and a half. And I don’t drool.”

“Hmm, yes,” Cas hums, dipping one of the densely packed things in a watery, black sauce. “That’ll make the difference. And you _so_ do when you’re asleep.”

“Nyeah, so why aren’t you? Asleep, I mean.” Cas chews around his food and shrugs. “More dreaming?” 

He’s not sure why that makes Cas flush, but grumbles when his phone buzzes _again_ and digs it out of his jacket. “Fucking… vibrator...”

“Work again?”

“Sam,” he says. “He’s got tonight covered, but he keeps harassing me.”

A sigh of relief and in the corner of his eye, Cas relaxes, dipping back into his spread. “Harassing, even. Why?”

“Because he wants picture proof I’m letting you eat in Baby.”

“Sorry, wha’?” Cas yelps around a mouthful, a finger raised to his chin to dab at a little rivulet of sauce, just as Dean takes a picture. “Dean!”

“I… Oh… Don’t you look adorable,” Dean laughs.

Hellishly flexible, Cas lifts his tray of food and hoists a leg up and over. He shoves his foot into Dean’s thigh, somehow not getting stuff all over himself. Dean grouches through a laugh, keeping his own - blessedly warm, thank you very much - beef noodle dish out of reach. His body still sways with the force of Cas’ strength and he chuckles as he drops his phone between his legs in favour of sliding his free hand under the hem of Cas’ pants.

Bee socks. His husband wears socks with bees on them.

“Do _not_ send that to the group!”

He makes a noncommittal sound that has the pressure on his thigh increasing, as he rubs his thumb above the sock, in search of Cas’ warm skin. Loves it when Cas doesn’t pull away and just wiggles his toes. 

“Keepin’ it.”

Cas shoots him a miffed, sweet gaze over his tray, chewing slowly. He digs up his phone again and wiggles it. “Gimme something to work with then.”

“Fuck off with that,” Cas grumbles goodnaturedly. He wraps his lips around his thumb, making eyes at Dean, which he’s gonna take as a crystal-clear invitation, though they might not be on the same page as to what exactly.

“Gotcha,” he says around a dry throat.

“You eat in Baby all the time, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I own her.”

Cas quirks an eyebrow at him with an unimpressed sigh. “Technically you own me. What does that tell you?”

He gives Cas a quick, sideways glare. “... I do _not_.”

Cas’ eyebrows shoot up in a challenge. “By law, you kinda do.”

“The law ain’t exactly flawless. There’s a huge difference between the law that’s written down on paper and the one we, as sentient beings, know we should abide by.”

“Did you even look at the papers I asked you to sign for college?”

He did. Dean might not be brilliant with fine print, but ever since Mary tried to get him to sign a collar contract before he even came of age, he’s learned. Uncle Bobby’s the only reason he was spared that fate. Well, that and his own stubbornness. Anything’s better than being in chains, though lately he’s wondering if his collar isn’t simply invisible. If there shouldn't be more options available instead of the either/or situation that everyone seems to have agreed to without ever really agreeing to it.

“Yeah, I did. What of it?”

“Just because _you_ don’t care doesn’t make it right.”

He scrunches up his face, feeling that sensation of going off his food any second now coming on. 

“I care plenty." He measures his words. "Sweetheart, we’re here so you can unwind from midterms. What kinda da… evening off would this be if I let you get riled up?”

“Fair, I guess.” Cas shrugs. “Difficult to ignore if it’s your reality.”

“That I get.” He holds out noodles, wrapped around his plastic fork. “Want more?”

Cas smiles, eyes squinting cutely. “Usually it’s you who needs more food.”

“I ordered double egg rolls.”

“Of course you did.”

“And dessert for you. Well, both of us obv…”

“Obviously,” Cas laughs. “Pie and…?”

“Brownies.”

Baby brightens up with Cas’ sweetened scent and Dean exhales slowly. Sweet fucking Jezus, his heat is there, alright, and those blockers ain’t doing much to alleviate what that does to his scent and to Dean in the process. For a while, he worried anyone could sniff Cas out through the blockers, but it seems to be just him. Which, fuck his life, really, makes total sense.

“So what were you saying about an intruder?” Cas asks.

“Right,” he nods. “My dreams. They’ve been weird. Any chance you’ve got some lingering grace that’s floating around our place, buddy?”

“Don’t call me buddy,” Cas says, tone dead-pan, frowning again. “You called the were buddy.”

“Alright, alright, sweetheart. So?”

“I do not have any grace ‘floating around’. We… We lost all of that.”

He perks his ears at the dip in Cas’ tone and stores the intel. “So why am I dreaming so much?”

“Probably ‘cause you eat sweets _after_ teatime and during hunts,” Cas smirks. “Bad for your digestion.”

Dean hums. “I see how it is… Who packs me those sweets, huh?”

“For lunch! Not a 10PM snack.”

He beams a wide smile at that, reminded of the lunch note that was in yesterday’s box. A printed cutout of Grumpy Cat, this time with a tiny heart scribbled on its chest. He doesn’t know what to do with them, besides keep them. They’re littering his duffel and near the key bowl on the dresser at the door. Baby too, but he tries to avoid that, because his pack members can be shitheads. Ketch was insufferable when he found one.

“You’re welcome,” Cas says softly, blue eyes suddenly warm as he looks at Dean, then clears his throat. “That said, not entirely kidding about eating before bed, but seeing as you’ve held that debatable rhythm for years, I doubt it’s to blame.” He rolls his eyes, when Dean makes a pleased ‘ha’ sound. “Yet.”

Dean looks at him expectantly. Ever since Cas mentioned the dreamwalking, he’s paid closer attention to them. He normally doesn’t dream much, but there’s been an uptick. Stuff he never remembers, but there were a few days he woke up with the unsettling feeling that he hadn’t been alone. Not like before and with the likes of Morningstar in the game, he ought to be vigilant. Sam gave him a scrunched up look when he asked about _his_ dreams, but seemed otherwise fine, as Winchesters often are.

“I’ll give it some thought,” Cas says. “The movie’s gonna start.”

“Ooh. Quick. Lemme get rid of the trash,” he gestures, wiping his mouth with the napkin.

He meanders the parked cars, spotting a few familiar faces. Business and supernatural alike, everyone needs to unwind. On the way back, he stares at Cas, squirming out of his hoodie and clearly giving into his nesting tendencies as he arranges it around himself alongside his trench. Taking off his own jacket, Dean blows a soft raspberry, then grins at the idea. Coming up to Baby, he leans on the door and bends down to look inside, suddenly a touch nervous. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t exactly form.

“What is it?”

He clears his throat and thumbs at the back. “You, uhh… You wanna take this to the backseat for the main event?”

Cas tries so hard not to smile, but he oozes onto his elbow, draped across the front seat, head tilted, lips pressed together until he breaks into a grin, teeth digging into his lip. “The main event?”

“The movie, man,” Dean grins. And winks. “Or dessert.”

“Of course, Dean," Cas says sweetly.

And proceeds to climb between the two seats, giving Dean an eyeful of his ass and those thighs in the process, dragging the hoodie and trench along.

“I just opened the door for you!”

He joins a cheeky-looking Cas in the back and slams it shut. The moment Dean gets comfy, Cas inches closer, so they’re shoulder to shoulder. Dean toes off his shoes, while Cas slouches down, the bag of brownies on his stomach.

“No digestion time needed?” he teases, when Cas opens it to sniff.

A soft sound to the negative follows. He breaks off a piece and holds it up, and hey, who is he to refuse dessert offered by his husband? His mouth quirks into a smile before he can stop himself, tongue teasing at a canine, and he dips in, careful not to touch Cas’ fingers. He exhales warmly against the skin though.

Throughout the movie, Cas gets increasingly closer, until he is plastered to Dean, one leg dangling between his, the other propped up against the front seat, his socked foot creating a little, black outline in the large screen. He’s warm and soft and beautifully relaxed, and Dean can’t stop trailing his hand over his arm to his thigh. He rubs circles with his thumb and gives little squeezes. A deep purr is released to the air and Cas drops his head to Dean’s shoulder. It takes a few seconds before Dean realizes Cas has his face tilted up rather than at the screen, where the end credits are rolling.

He slants a sideways glance. Even in the dark, Cas’ cheeks are tinged darker, pupils dilated… though that could simply be the effect of nighttime. Right? Oh… No, nope… A golden rim lights up around the darkened blues. There’s a tiny crumb of brownie just south of the left corner of Cas’ mouth. He meets Cas’ eyes, then drops his gaze down. Frowning, Cas seems unaware and Dean smirks, as he dips in, licking it off. Whoa. Gut instantly like molten lava, the air between them goes piping hot. Cas stretches his neck, that shaky kind, ‘cause he’s folded like a pretzel and Dean strains closer to meet him. Whoever whines first is unclear, but they echo. He lifts his free hand to Cas’ cheek, the other squished between their thighs. Noses up to capture his lips better, give them a lick to provoke Cas, which works when he wiggles to get closer still.

Around them, engines rumble, as the parking lot starts to come back to life. A set of lights glares inside Baby and they get a burst of honks, which is picked up across the lot. Cas laughs against his lips and wraps an arm around his neck, long fingers tracking through the short hair at the back of his head. A sinuous feeling crests from his gut up like an ominous swirl of witch’s incense. Enchanting, how this works, and Dean wants to give in so bad.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” Cas mutters.

Thank fuck for that, because neither does Dean. He clamps down on his eagerness and chuckles. “Not even for Pandora?”

Cas nips at his lower lip in punishment. “That’s unfair. I fed her earlier today. She even nudged my hand.”

“Trying to get another slice of meat, no doubt.” Dean snorts a laugh, when Cas shoves him. Giving Cas a look that might be borderline sultry, he rests his hand on the side of the door, drumming his fingers slowly and dips his voice lower. “Where would you like to go, sweetheart?”

Cas rolls his shoulders, expression rippling with surprise, and presses his hand to Dean’s chest. A touch of something wild lights up in his eyes and he suddenly smells like freedom. “Up.”

Holding each other hostage, Dean licks his lips to drag Cas’ attention there, and nods, somehow feeling like he knows exactly what Cas wants. “Miss your wings?”

The question is a surprise to both of them and, flinching, Cas curls in on himself, expression pensive, as he glances over his shoulder. As if remembering times when he still had them. Dean narrows his eyes, blinking, because he experiences the strangest sense of déja-vu, even though he’s never seen an angel’s wings up close in his life. He wonders if they were the same colour as Cas’ curly, dark hair.

“I do,” Cas whispers. “A lot.”

He nods, placing a sweet kiss to Cas’ temple, and nudges Cas off of him, the idea as clear as a bell. It’s a grumpy kind of slink, the way Cas disengages from him, which is adorable. “But you gotta stop pouting.”

“Why? Is it working?”

“It’s unnecessary,” he huffs, when Cas grins his teeth bare, twinkling with a teasing energy. “I know just the place you need to be.”

* 

Dean drives them to that part of the city which defies logic in more ways than one. All the way to the West, it ensures the best view of a sunset, though they’re well past that time of day. His stomach flips, when the road breaks off from the earth’s surface to wind up and around a cluster of massive, stairway-stacked structures, higher than any other in the city. They’re pitch-black, year-round, and as far as he knows (and he’s watched Benny and Jo try to scale them) possess no doors or windows. They’re just there, existing. A landmark to recognize the city from afar. A natural occurrence. 

Dean swallows. Why is he doing this to himself?

Next to him, Cas presses his palms to Baby’s window, a soft gasp escaping.

Right. That’s why.

In search of other senses than the terrifying visuals, Dean opens his window, letting the warm night air in. It cools off, the higher they get.

“You’ve never been?” he asks, incredulous.

His breath fogs up the window. “I wasn’t allowed out much.”

His Alpha preens at giving Cas a first time, even while he loathes the adults in Cas' life for denying him.

What this place has going for it is a reverse velarium, like the Romans had at the Colosseum. No rich people were gonna watch a bunch of gladiators massacre each other in the blistering Italian sun. In this case, it serves to darken the top of the cluster and drown out the light pollution. It sinks the road into darkness, Baby lighting the way. Ahead of them are numerous red eyes of other cars on the same trajectory. The way down is on the other side to avoid collisions.

He isn’t one for heights, so besides a few childhood visits and cheering on Benny and Jo, he hasn’t been here that often. The way the road just drops off on either side gives him the heebie jeebies. But what lies ahead is beautiful, night or day. Several acres worth of nothing but park, complete with a few artificial lakes you can actually swim in and its own arboretum. Never closing, it’d be a hot spot for trouble, if it wasn’t for the patrols. Law-abiding, often supernatural citizens take turns, keeping the place safe, several of them on the Winchester payroll. In some cases, it goes towards community service.

As it stands, it’s a favorable location for people like him and Cas, especially at night. You drive the outer ring or wander aimlessly through a different kind of darkness and quiet, while you get to see more stars than you ever do on the ground.

Dean drives for a good half hour, before he deems they’re out far enough and away from others, and parks Baby on a particularly dark ledge, heart rate going up at the way the earth just _cuts off_. The engine cuts off too, encasing them in that wide-horizon type of silence. There’s a few quiet moments, where Dean wonders if he should say anything.

“Can we get out?”

“Of course,” he says. “You don’t need permission…”

“Force of habit,” Cas mutters, as he opens the door and exits Baby, gaze aimed up the whole time.

Dean stores that subject too, as he joins Cas in front of Baby. With zealous conviction, he avoids looking at the ledge, instead focusing on Cas. Best option in any scenario, honestly, but exceptionally more so when he needs to not panic. It takes a few heartbeats for his focus to fully shift, when his brain latches onto something, watching Cas’ form outlined against the starry heavens. Small within the vastness. Fitting in their beauty.

Cas once flew among them.

The realization is unbidden and lands strangely. For all the oddities he’s encountered in his life, the idea that his husband is a fallen angel, who once had wings and flew among the stars is one of the most peculiar. A heart wrenching one, he thinks, when he pegs the wistfulness in Cas. The calm is replaced with a grimace, just a few seconds, and he reaches a hand back to press down on his own shoulder blade.

“So how much older are you really?” he finds himself asking.

Cas startles and looks at him, blue eyes darkened and wide, then smiles ruefully. “A fair bit, but we sort of got reset when we fell.”

“Reset?”

“A human life, right? I’m roughly the age of this vessel, physically speaking. Everything else…”

“A fair bit older,” Dean echoes. “Like the start of time older. Holy shit… How are you not bored out of your skull?”

“With… what? Humanity?” Cas asks delicately.

“Yeah, this must suck, compared to what you could do.”

“For mother, certainly. Luce isn’t too pleased either nor is uncle Zach. In fact, few angels are happy about this.” He sighs and shrugs, glancing up. “I don’t mind it so much.”

“Besides missing your wings.”

Cas’ scent does something painful, twisting up Dean’s gut. “Yes, but it’s a vague kind of missing. Like very early childhood memories. More impressions than anything else. I was a fledgeling when we fell.”

“A fledgeling?” he asks, smiling around the word. “I’m imagining you as a little, fluffy bird now.”

“Funny.”

Dean hoists himself onto Baby’s hood, legs splayed out. The metal groans under his weight. “C’me here, sweetheart,” he says, patting the spot beside him.

Cas eyes Baby dubiously. “Sure she can take it?”

“Fortified hood,” he hums smugly. “Hop on.”

“Why is it fortified, I wonder?” Cas gingerly steps onto the bumper and looks out of his element, planting his hands on her shiny exterior, before eventually easing onto his ass.

“Because some things out there are hella strong. And it allows for people to stretch out.” He suits his actions to his words, lying back, his back pressed to Baby’s front window.

From his vantage point, arms looped around his knees, Cas looks him over, an eyebrow cocked. “Smooth, handsome.”

“Really?”

“No, but you’re cute anyway.” 

Cas turns his face up again. Dean slides one hand behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His fingers are itching to reach out.

The longer they sit like that, the more Cas’ scent brightens. Though it softens out into a bittersweet kind of nostalgia, part of it grows heavier on the air. It clings to each of Dean’s senses and he just soaks it up. Unable to close his eyes, he’s sure that if he did, he’d fall asleep without so much as a hitch and dream a dreamless sleep. Peaceful.

“The dreamwalking reminds me of it,” Cas says softly. “The world beyond the veil is different from the heavens, but in some ways, it gives me the same kind of feeling...”

He’s uncertain how to respond to the angelic power, being brought back up. Last time didn’t go over so well and he doesn’t want to break this brittle moment they’re sharing. So he ducks out from the instinct to pry loose information for the sake of the family business and tries to listen to what Cas is actually saying.

For once, Cas isn’t _as_ chatty, but Dean worries he has to fill the silence that’s growing. With something sensible, something smart… until it clicks. What the heavens and those wings imply and what they once meant for Cas, Angel of the Lord-that-Dean-doesn’t-believe-in. Cas, who is now an Omega, bound by human laws.

“Freedom,” he mutters.

Cas visibly winces at the word and this time Dean reaches out, catching him by the elbow. Before he can figure out something else to say, Cas goes with the touch and lies down beside him. His breath falls warm to Dean’s cheek, while he squirms to get comfy.

“I can teach you.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The dreaming… You said you’ve woken up a few times feeling unsafe?”

“Not unsafe,” he protests. What a ridiculous notion. “They’re just dreams. But not necessarily alone, which I can’t say I’ve experienced much before in my life.”

He doesn’t need to say the rest. The fact that it coincides with their marriage, the Novaks worming their way into the Winchesters lives, the fact that he and Sam are chasing down relics the Novaks can’t get for themselves as part of this whole deal, makes adding two and two all too easy. Cas seems equally hellbent on steering clear of that mess, when he nods. He lowers his gaze to Dean’s chest, frowning, and bites his lip.

“I can teach you how to control your form,” he says, fingers playing idly with the hem of his plaid, “I mean, I can explain it to you. Not sure how it would fare if you tried to use it.”

“Use it? You mean, out there, _while_ I’m dreaming?”

“Yes.”

“Is that possible?” he asks, curiosity kicking in.

“It’s the whole point of the ability, so yes.”

Cas smells so horridly uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze, Dean crinkles his nose and has to fight back a sneeze. Pursing his lips, he sighs. “Are you even allowed, Cas?”

The discomfort is replaced with an almost childish stubbornness, as Cas looks at him, eyes narrowed. “No.”

Helpless in the face of such adorable mutiny, Dean chuckles. “Don’t get yourself in trouble for me, sweetheart. I doubt I’d be any good at it anyway.”

Cas pinches his thigh and Dean twitches under him, snarling playfully. 

“Don’t speak that way… I mean, it _is_ a bit of an uncertainty,” Cas amends. “I know anyone can be taught the theory, but it takes a kind of sensitivity to that world and what it represents for anyone who isn’t an angel.”

Dean smirks at how Cas picks and weighs his words. “Okay, I’ll tag along. What does it represent?”

“Dreams,” Cas smiles at him meaningfully. “Hopes, fears, _wants_.” Dean’s breath hitches when Cas’ scent skyrockets with those three little words. “Everything this world says you can’t have.” 

He becomes so aware of Cas’ warmth when he sidles up to Dean, his arm draped over Dean’s chest, fingers suddenly squirming into his collar. With a bemused exhale, he holds Cas’ gaze, face hopefully less of an open book than he feels, caught in the hue of those inky blues.

“You remember your _dreams_ , Cas?”

A peculiar sound is wrenched out and Cas ducks his head, nuzzling at Dean’s sternum. “Usually,” he mumbles.

Right. Difficult dreams. He did say that and who knows what angels dream of. No stranger to nightmares, Dean scolds himself for bringing it up in the first place and puts his arms around Cas. “Is alright,” he hums.

“We don’t have to talk about them, but I’ll, uhh, take you up on that family secret offer.”

Cas reappears, glowering at him in that sweet kinda way he’s starting to recognize as a positive. “That lowers your chances of me following through.”

He grins, slipping his hands under Cas’ shirt. “Oh, really?”

The cutest yelp has Cas squirming away from his deft fingers, into his arms, their legs entangling, chest to chest. “Yes! I mean, no… Not again!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he laughs, holding Cas tighter.

Their faces inches apart, Cas slumps against him, looking for all the world like he might make a run for it into the park, if Dean so much as breathes wrong. So instead, he rumbles at Cas and noses at his cheek. Nudges a few times, his hands massaging his lower back, until he feels Cas relax in his embrace.

“There you go,” he hums smugly. “I can tell you’re the youngest of three. So traumatized.”

“Yes, cause older brothers are dicks. You have _no_ idea.”

He barks a laugh that rings loud through the night, jostling a giggling Cas in the process. “Aww, fuck, you’re adorable.”

Cas sinks his canine into the inside of his lower lip, revealing teeth and tongue as he does, and Dean dips in before he can overthink it again. Finds a more than willing partner in his husband, when Cas whimpers sweetly and licks into his mouth eagerly. A muted ‘fuck’ barely makes it out, before his mouth has other business to attend to. Cas seats himself in his lap fully and, fortified hood or no, that’s a lotta pressure for the metal to take, but they both ignore the metallic groaning.

Desire coasts up from the depths of him, thick and heavy in his veins. His fingers glide up Cas’ flanks, nails coming out, and he curses softly, the sound just a touch broken when Cas swallows it right up. Hands are on either side of his face, the space between them so friggin’ _hot_ all of a sudden, and Dean reminds himself of Cas' heat. A greedy part of him _wants_ all of a sudden. Wishes they could go through that heat together instead of suppressing everything. His mouth is flooded with Cas’ taste as he kisses him deeper and growls, releasing a tremble in Cas neither of them anticipated. Cas’ scent explodes around him and thank fuck, they’re out in the open air, or he’s sure he’d have popped his knot, meds be damned.

He pulls at Cas’ hips with more urgency, sinking into the blending fragrances of cedar wood, pencil lead and something he only recognizes from old libraries Sam dragged him to. There’s more, but the blockers are likely messing with both of them. He’s happy he’s picking up as much as he does, his Alpha panting and snuffling out the source, until he’s got his nose pressed to Cas’ mating gland, inhaling as if his life depends on it.

“Mmh, Dean!” Cas groans, breath coming out in quick bursts. “Aauhhn, please...”

The pleading does him in, when Cas arches his back, his hands pressed to Dean’s abdomen, the warmth of him everywhere they’re touching. He lets out the sweetest Omega sound, squirming, as he throws his head back and glances down at Dean, eyes lighting up golden.

The view is coated in red in the blink of an eye.

“Ah!” Cas exclaims.

His eyes going almost black, he scrambles away, nearly toppling off of Baby’s hood. Dean chases him and grabs him by the waist. “Hey! Careful, damnit!”

Cas clamps his hand around Dean’s forearm, still sliding backwards, as he stares at Dean. He’s breathing harshly through his nose, terror written all over his face.

“You okay?” Dean asks, hoping so hard Cas didn’t see.

Kinda. Wishing maybe he did. Coming clean is such a strange concept, especially for one like him, he dismisses it the next second. Cas swallows hard and squeezes his shoulder, while he balances himself, feet back on the ground.

“I… Yes, I’m sorry. I think my mind is playing tricks on me.”

He holds his tongue, doubt and guilt making his stomach drop. Dean scoots to the edge of the hood, while his hands busy themselves pulling a retreating Cas back in. It’s easier than the wasps’ nest that is the truth. And right now, he _wants_ Cas. He wants more of him, of their kisses, and his scent. He doesn’t wanna reveal anything and see that terror turn to disgust. He breathes a little easier, when Cas goes with it, his fingers lacing through Dean’s, and tilts forward until he’s bracketed between Dean’s legs. He kisses Cas again, closed-lipped, long and slow, with the gentlest nudges added. His eyes firmly shut, he wills their biology to work, even when his own is out of the picture, whispering sweet nothings, until Cas exhales shakily and his arms wrap around Dean’s shoulders once more.

“Better?” he mutters between two kisses.

“Yes,” Cas nods, inching closer. “Dreams… I… I was raised to fear Alphas. Maybe that werewolf encounter threw me more than I thought…”

Dean smiles wryly, the words ashen on his tongue as he takes the out Cas so thoughtfully provides him with. “It’d be strange if it didn’t, Cas. Even for an angel.” For a moment he hesitates, as they look at each other. “So do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Fear Alphas? You didn’t exactly back off from that werewolf.”

Cas lets out a derisive sound, clearly aimed at himself. “Shows what I knew. But no. I had some Alpha friends growing up,” he admits hesitantly, studying Dean. “Sneaky of course, because mother. And Anna. Luce too, though he is terrifying for other reasons.”

“Sneaky, huh?” Dean zones in on the easy, playful parts, wanting to keep the evening light, hooked on Cas’ happy scent from mere moments ago. He wants him to mellow out again. “Like backseat of the car sneaky?”

Cas smiles, stealing a kiss. “More like parents aren’t home skinny dipping in the pool sneaky.”

“Ooh, sounds like fun too. C’me back here, Cas…” 

He almost adds ‘you’re safe’, but doesn’t, when Cas dips in for another type of kiss. He moans and surrenders to it for a few intense, quickly ratcheting heartbeats. It’s difficult to say which of them moves first, but somehow they start to inch their way to Baby’s side, never once losing contact with her smooth surface or each other. Cas pushes him against the door, while Dean scrambles for the handle, opening her up blindly. It knocks them off balance enough to have to break the kiss, lost to a few giggles.

They stumble onto the back seat, Dean bumping his elbow in the process as he protects Cas from knocking his head on her ceiling, before he’s on his back, Cas straddling him.

“Careful, sweethea…”

Cas muffles the words with more kisses and, sure, Dean can get used to those. Without ever getting used to them, because the sensations that course through him are a different brand than what he’s known in his life so far. They pull something to the surface he’s not prepared for. The temperature in Baby spikes alongside their breathing and the urgency with which hands go exploring. 

He unbuttons Cas’ shirt, watching his pupils blow wide with each one popped, and dips in to taste him. Sucks down on the warm skin, Alpha chuffing at how Cas responds and twists closer, hands cupping his head. Steering him and he doesn’t need much, so he flicks his tongue out over a nipple. Rolls the bud between his teeth until Cas lets out a harsher sound that deteriorates to a hiss, then sucks it into his mouth, tongue teasing.

Dean maintains his focus adamantly, eyes closed tight, because his Alpha’s hovering so close to the surface. He can’t even tell if it’s in a problematic way, because he’s never had this. But they get to have this, he chants to himself, they get to have this. He’s hidden for longer in far harsher circumstances under more duress. But no one warns you of the softer challenges.

The ones that threaten to lay your soul bare by the scent of…

Home?

Having Cas so responsive to his touch does nothing to ease his Alpha, but in that greedy, borderline reckless kinda way that has him claiming whatever territory Cas offers up. He marks every patch of skin Cas doesn’t fight him on. Relishes the way Cas pulls at his clothes, claws digging into his flanks gently at first, then harder when he encourages him.

The gears shift, desire clinging to his tongue deliciously, when he undoes Cas’ pants and pushes them down, the tang of slick added to the equation tenfold stronger.

“Cas,” he mumbles, chuckling when Cas retreats marginally only to lick their saliva off his lips. “This okay?”

Looking a bit cross-eyed, Cas’ eyes light up golden, as he scowls. “Yesyesyes, give…”

His cheeks tinged dark, Dean doesn’t give either of them time to think, and captures his lips, dipping in quick and dirty. Somehow, layers of Cas’ scent are revealed to him. He allows himself to give into his overexcited Alpha the only way he knows how. To give loved ones what they need, which in this case means he focuses fully on Cas’ desire. Provides every touch and sensation he can think of, fingers sinking into his slick warmth, searching for the soft spots that pitch his sounds higher. The type that can’t be suppressed and make him grin crookedly, because well, he’s still Dean.

Cas whines, rocking down on his fingers, breaths huffed in Dean’s mouth. Following his nose, Dean presses it into Cas’ neck, instantly rewarded with the most intense hit of Omega scent yet. Cursing silently, he knows what Cas actually needs. Dean mouths at Cas’ mating gland, sucking at the sensitive patch of skin, Cas trembling beautifully. He can’t bite him, but he can trick Cas’ body into thinking he might, giving him as much of what he needs as he can.

It works like a charm, which is to say it kinda works a little too well. Because the second Cas announces his orgasm through heady breaths, Dean is pulled right over that edge with him. When he comes, his knot doesn’t pop, as promised, but it hurts like hell, even through the fog of his brain, sparking with electricity, and the forgiving knowledge that he just got Cas off on his hand alone.

The second the moment passes, he wonders if blue balls can be an actual colour, ‘cause it’s sure as fuck how they feel. Full, even though he just came. He breathes in and out slowly, darkness crowding his vision. Shit.

“Mmmh, auhh, y… you okay?” Cas asks, sounding somewhat drunk.

His hands release their death grip on Dean’s plaid and slide down his flanks. Whatever he and his scent are up to brings him back from the pain, blending it with something else beyond words, and soothes him. Must be Omega pheromones, he thinks blearily, when they smooth out some of the pain that was threatening to spread to his ass and lower back.

Instead he becomes aware of the deft fingers that pop his button and unzip his fly, before he realizes what Cas is saying.

“Dean…”

“M’fine,” he grumbles.

“You don’t look…”

Cas’ scent is threatening to sour, so Dean dips into that little curve where his collarbones meet and licks the sweat off, nipping his way back to Cas’ neck, until whatever Cas was going to say is reduced to a reedy, little ‘auh’ that makes Dean smile. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to go under in Cas’ scent. Their scent, all in all. Cas nudges his cheek to Dean, impatient, still wanting.

“You smell… Dean, I want to…”

His hand slips into Dean’s briefs and stills the next moment, when it encounters the sticky mess. Squirming, he rearranges until he can look at Dean, eyebrows raised, some kind of twinkle in his eyes. Dean flusters under his gaze, though he’s sure he’s already plenty pink-cheeked.

“I find you very, very attractive,” he grumbles. “Sue me.”

Laughing, visibly charmed, Cas kisses him and cuddles up. “Is this okay or do you wanna…?”

“Nah, I’ve had worse gloop stuck to me.”

Cas slots to his side, nudging him to the edge of the seat just a bit more for Dean’s arm to shoot out to the back of the front seat. “Not the fluffiest pillow talk I’ve heard.”

“But at least there _is_ pillow talk,” Dean grins. “You heard a lotta pillow talk in your life?”

“No, but I feel we can do better than ‘gloop’. Like… For instance… I like how you smell.”

Dean freezes and stares down at Cas, going cross-eyed in turn. “... What?”

“I know what I said… that first time.”

Dean bites his tongue and purses his lips, wanting to look away, but doesn’t. Can’t.

“I think I was wrong. I found your scent… I think.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it? Maybe the books are wrong.”

He chuckles, his senses going to defcon 1. He doesn’t need Cas going Sherlock on this stuff. “Sorry… Did you just say you actually believe the _books_ are wrong?”

Cas grimaces at his teasing challenge. “The men behind the books. The ones who think they know all there is to know, while they’re operating from their own limited experience. Besides, Nulls haven’t been studied a lot.”

“You been digging?”

“Yes, actually. I feel I should understand. Turns out…”

“No one cares about the ones who have no scent?”

Which is exactly why they chose to hide Dean as a Null. Few people know much about them, because they fall outside every procreation-obsessed relevant, biological range. Whereas Betas rank low, still above Alphas, Nulls don’t rank at all. No one cares.

But that at least makes you invisible, free to move, even if you have to watch your every step. Dean has more freedom as a Null than he would have as an Alpha. That’s what he keeps telling himself.

With his Omega husband smelling like heaven in his arms, unaware of the match they _could_ have, he isn’t so sure.

“So idealistic,” he mumbles, trailing his fingers from Cas’ temple to his chin.

“Get used to it,” Cas says.


	30. Through The Middle Of My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Suuuure. Is your pretty husband not home?”
> 
> “Please don’t call him that when he can hear you. Juice or coke?”
> 
> “Got any wine?”
> 
> “No,” Castiel says pointedly. “And we still have to get back to class.”
> 
> “You know, the whole college experience gets a lot more fun if you break the rules now and then. Have you tried philosophy while drunk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bal. <3 Much like Gabe, always fun. Title song from I'm On Fire lyrics!
> 
> If you're just joining or you're still here since this started, thank you so much for that. Your presence and patience. They are much appreciated!
> 
> Edited: I accidentally posted one of the draft chapters further down the road, so some of you may have gotten two emails. Apologies -_-
> 
> Many hugs, as ever,  
> Mal

Castiel opens the front door and puts his keys in the bowl. “Take off your shoes.”

“Yes, sir,” Bal says, tapping two fingers to his temple.

“Hey, Dean works hard to keep this place clean.”

Balthazar frowns, a mix of curiosity and judgement in his expression. “Figures he’d be as odd as you are.”

“Says you,” Castiel huffs, dumping his backpack on a kitchen chair to get himself some juice. “Want something to drink?”

“Suuuure. Is your pretty husband not home?”

“Please don’t call him that when he can hear you. Juice or coke?”

“Got any wine?”

“No,” Castiel says pointedly. “And we still have to get back to class.”

“You know, the whole college experience gets a lot more fun if you break the rules now and then. Have you tried philosophy while drunk?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and holds up a beer questioningly.

“Ugh, it’ll have to do.”

“Let’s sit outside,” Castiel says. “Pandora’s probably sleeping, but it’ll let you see her colours better.”

He walks over to the sliding doors, squinting against the initial glare of the sun-drenched deck. Blinking, it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.

“Oh,” Bal says behind him. “I guess he is home after all.”

“Uhhhh…”

Dean’s home. Yes. Sitting outside in the pergola’s shade. In his grey tee, the one that fits tight around his biceps, and black boxer briefs. The table’s littered with gun parts. Whistling softly, Dean’s got his earphones on, while he cleans one or other metal _thing_ with a smudged rag. Castiel’s rooted to the spot, taking in the view, until Dean’s relaxed demeanour shifts. His shoulders tense a split second, before the green gaze zones in on them. He smiles when he finds Castiel, pulling one earbud out.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I thought you had class until four?”

“One class fell away, but we have to get back for our final period,” he mutters, the glass of juice sliding through his sweaty palm. He grips it tighter, while he thumbs over his shoulder. “This is Bal, a friend I made on the first day.”

“I remember him,” Dean says. He gives Bal a quick once-over and nods. “The werewolf visit, right?”

Balthazar responds with something. Castiel realizes that much, because he’s dimly aware of the timbre rumbling behind him, but he’s not listening to the exchange, because his eyes are caught on Dean’s… arms. Arms, yes. For one. The tendons flex under his skin, muscles working with every casual gesture, as he keeps cleaning his weapons, the activity clearly second nature. But then his gaze slides down to those bow legs on display. It doesn’t happen often. They’re freckled too, he thinks absurdly, and the hair looks golden in the sun.

“I can take this inside, if you like,” Dean says, when he catches Castiel staring.

Balthazar snorts a sarcastic laugh, slipping past him, as he shoots Castiel another one of those annoying, knowing looks. Man’s brain is permanently in the gutter, but for once, he isn’t wrong. 

“Oh, heavens, no, do your thing. He’s clearly loving it.”

“Hey!” Castiel exclaims, finding his voice back. 

Dean laughs, which makes Castiel stick out his tongue. Bal wanders into the garden. The sound of sliding metal sends goosebumps dancing across Castiel’s skin. 

“I came here to see the owl and that garden he’s been bragging about endlessly.”

“Expecting to find the house empty?” Dean asks.

Now Castiel flusters genuinely, because there’s an edge to Dean’s tone that he hopes Balthazar misses.

Alas.

“I don’t do married folk,” Bal says, giving a wave of his hand. “Too complicated.”

Dean cocks the gun, looking much too casual, and it really shouldn’t send his blood rushing. “But you would if he wasn’t married?”

“Uhhh, maybe? Yes? Have you heard him talk? Have you seen him? You must have. You’re married. No need to glower, pretty boy, he’s completely smitten.”

“ _He_ is also right here, if you don’t fucking mind. What is this Alphafest?”

He fears 'the lady doth protest too much' is dripping off his words. He likes this. A lot. And he's probably not fooling anyone. Dean gives him a look that has him second guessing his remark even more. All sweet innocence and country boy charm, while he smiles, the gesture turning into a sleazy, little chuckle. The way he winks at Castiel makes his insides feel like a pillow fight, where the feathers explode everywhere.

“He’s the one brandishing a gun!” Balthazar says defensively.

“Yes, well, both of you behave.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean says softly. 

Balthazar lets out a weird sound, eyes bouncing between the two of them. “Aren’t you two precious?” he mumbles. “Where’s that owl?”

With a gentle ‘hum’, Dean leans back in his chair, and, oh, there goes Castiel’s attention span again when that flashes a generous amount of skin and a belly button he wants to kiss. And more flexing.

“Up there in the wisteria, but she’s tucked under her wing. You staying for dinner later? She’ll be more lively then.”

Balthazar smiles and shrugs. “Why not? He’s been bragging about that too.”

Dean cocks his jaw impressively at that, as he gets back to work on his second gun. “Well, good. Cause I feel I ought to feed you at least once to thank you.”

Castiel tilts his head, sniffing out the intent behind the words.

“Huh?” Balthazar says eloquently.

“For keeping me safe,” Castiel answers for Dean.

“Oh, that. Of course. Now am I getting that tour?”

“Yes? Yes!” Castiel says, his feet moving faster than the rest of him as he tries to get back with the program. He walks up to the table to set his glass down, smiling like an idiot when Dean winks at him.

“What’s this one?” Bal asks, smirking when Castiel has trouble focusing on him.

But he knows his flora.

“Lupin. And in the pot next to it is hibiscus, which reminds me.”

He walks up to Balthazar and picks each calyx that doesn’t fight him on being picked.

“Why’d you do that? They’re still fully red.”

Castiel smiles, feeling the buds in his palm. “They are for tea. We have to dry them. It isn’t just wisteria on the pergola, by the way.”

“Hmm?” Bal asks, sniffing around for fragrances.

“Moonflower too. Well, morning glory. And Pandora seems to prefer that one.”

“Indeed. She looks cute in a predatory kind of way.”

Castiel puts his harvest in one of the foreseen bowls and follows Bal, as he wanders through the bamboo hedge that eventually leads to the grated tunnel and the cubbyhole.

“The colour on these is beautiful.”

“Bachelor buttons,” Castiel smiles. “Dean chose those.”

“I wonder why.”

“What?”

Balthazar eyes him, then shakes his head, pointing at another pot overflowing with thick flowers. “Black dahlia, right?”

Castiel sighs and nods. There’s something about those petals and the deep hue from burgundy to almost-but-not-quite black that always pulls at him. Refocuses his attention from everything else, as if they’re hypnotizing him. They feature often in his dreams too. Either wrapping him up in their softness or growing exponentially so he can walk from petal to petal, bare feet tingling with pleasure.

A bright white in a pot behind them catches his eye.

“Those are new?” he murmurs.

“Don’t ask me,” Bal says, “I’m just a visitor. But those look like gardenias to me. Very powerful…”

“You’re not as ignorant about plants as you seem,” Castiel accuses him.

Because they are powerful. The meaning of gardenias runs deep and he didn’t plant them, which means…

“I grew those,” Dean says.

Balthazar is the picture of ease, when he turns around, hands in his pockets, but Castiel jumps, a pleasant feeling bursting right under his skin. His eyes are ablaze with a lot of feelings. They might glow golden even. “You did?”

Dean's focus is solely on him. At least that's how it feels when those bright green eyes meet his. “Uh-hmm. Been reading up a bit.”

“You have?”

Great, Castiel lost his power to form sentences with more than two words. Dean scoffs one of those crooked laughs, softness in his expression. He went to put on pants (but why?) and is sauntering towards them, his fingers threading lazily through the overhead grate that holds more of the wisteria. He comes to a halt, gripping it tighter as if testing its sturdiness. They set that up a few weeks ago and Dean wasn’t sure it would hold under the wind they get up here. So far, so good, it seems, when Dean purses his lips and nods, arms flexing as he tilts his hips lazily. Castiel wants to let out an Omega whine, but swallows it down.

“Figured you’d like them.”

“My favorite,” he says, tilting his chin down and looking at Dean through his lashes. His cheeks warm pleasantly at the meaning of the flower and the fact that Dean chose that one. For him. “Their scent...”

“What would you two like to eat later?”

Bal opens his mouth to make an undoubtedly filterless remark, but there’s a flash to Dean’s eyes that stops him, keeping the moment soft and mellow.

“Bal can choose,” he mumbles. Back up to _three_ words. 

Food, classes, it won’t matter. His focus for the day is shot anyway. Because, sure, his heat doesn’t break through because of the pill, but he’s convinced he hasn’t been this sensitive, emotional and horny even after a heat in his life.

*

The spare room door creaks. It’s been on his to-do list since he noticed, but tonight it’s what warns him of Cas’ arrival. There’s the shuffling of feet over the carpet, which then halt, and a small-sounding ‘Dean?’ that breaks through his restless, semi-sleep. He’s sure he was in the middle of an intense dream after the hunt they had, but that poofed out of existence the moment he became aware of his husband.

“MmmhhngCaswhut?”

“It’s me. I’m sorry to wake you…”

“Dreams?” he slurs, because that’s his life now.

“Yes,” Cas says softly. “But bad.”

“C’me here,” he mumbles, ignoring the chill as he opens up his duvet.

Cas is quick to obey, crawling into the bed. He smells unsure and Dean, in his groggy state, doesn’t hold the distance he usually would. Instead, he pulls Cas closer, leaving little room for negotiation. Cas’ yelp makes him chuckle and there’s a soft nudge to his jawline, when Cas bumps his forehead to it, either searching for a warm nook to hide in or communicating something Dean’s too tired to understand.

Comfort. That’s all he’s getting from Cas.

All he _needs_.

“Burning,” Cas mumbles.

“Uh-hmm,” he hums, unfazed. Showered, took his meds. All good.

“Your muscles are trembling.”

“Rough night for me too.”

Cas squirms closer, one arm folded between them, another thrown over Dean’s side and curled up, so he can rub circles at the back of Dean’s head. He lets out a reflexive purred rumble and drops a kiss to Cas’ brow, tucking him under his chin.

“Were you safe?”

“Safe as ever,” he says truthfully.

“That tells me nothing.”

“Sweetheart,” he whines. Cas chuffs at him in protest, enough for Dean to wrench his eyes open. Cas goes slightly cross-eyed when they look at each other. Dean blinks to fix his blurry focus. “What do you remember?”

“Darkness,” Cas says instantly, the whites of his eyes stark. “Something writhing and running and terrifying, but… it was like I was enjoying it? I don’t know. My dreams have been harder to control lately.”

An odd sense of déja-vu nags in the back of his mind. He knows it’s ridiculous and it’s just ‘cause he’s so tired, but Cas’ description skates a little too close to his hunt. As if he knows what Dean took down tonight. How much he enjoyed it when he sank in the knife, muscle and bone giving way to warm blood. The monster lived longer than expected and he relished every second of its struggle, until the black eyes did that life-sapping shift and Death came for their charge. As far as Dean is concerned, if any deity exists, that’s the one: Death. Why else would men like himself exist?

“Dean?”

Though he wants to tell Cas how close it hits to a hunter’s fare, he purses his lips. “Sorry, Cas. Sounds like one of those intense, sticky nightmares.”

Cas nods, a small gesture, his hair tickling Dean’s chin. 

“What do you need?” he asks around a stifled yawn. It makes Cas smile, which is something, because all of a sudden, he wishes he could let Cas scent him.

“This is okay. You go back to sleep.”

He yawns again, trying really hard not to. “Uh-huh. And what’ll you do?”

Cas laughs sweetly. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean snorts and grumbles, pulling Cas in. “Kinda creepy.”

A kiss to his clavicle is the last thing he registers before sleep pulls him under once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower notes for those interested. All flowers picked and based on pictures from Tanstaafl. Instrumental, I said, yes? Yes.
> 
> \- Lupin: connected to wolves, voracious love of life  
> \- Black dahlia: find your unique path, inner strength  
> \- Bachelor buttons: in this case, the electric blue ones (for obvious reasons), purity of feelings  
> \- Moonflower: unrequited love, mortality  
> \- Gardenia: express love and devotion when you can't say it


	31. Sirens Of Ulysses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scoff follows, irritation palpable, but all of a sudden, the annoying filter that was messing with his view brightens. Sharpens and he looks sideways. The guy looks familiar, but the name’s not coming to him.
> 
> “Really?” Alpha asks. “Nothing? I’m sure I got it right.”
> 
> “I feel I should know this. You look very familiar.”
> 
> “Think stars.”
> 
> “That’s a bit obvious out here. Oh! Uhm, Han?”

“I never did ask, but seeing the wings, it was a bit of a given. Alright if I call you Angel?”

Castiel shivers under the scrutiny he senses rather than sees, the question prying between his feathers and through his skin, trying to get at his core. The being beside him is even more nebulous than usual, never coming into focus, no matter how much he tries to look at him. Slinking out of his line of sight, every time he turns. It’s a foggy night, a storm on the horizon all around, and they both seem on edge, though he can’t peg why. Shyness does not really translate here, unless he isn't fully in control, but there is something... A wistfulness. Was it a full moon when he went to bed?

“Why are you so occupied with my name?”

“I’ve learned the importance of them early on,” Alpha says, a touch cross.

“Well, you’re hiding too.”

A scoff follows, irritation palpable, but all of a sudden, the annoying filter that was messing with his view brightens. Sharpens and he looks sideways. The man next to him is familiar, but the name’s not coming. He tilts his heads and frowns.

“Really?” Alpha asks. “Nothing? I’m sure I got it right.”

“I feel I should know this. You look _very_ familiar.”

“Think stars and spaceships.”

“That’s a bit obvious out here. Oh! Uhm, Han?”

“There we go,” Han Solo-Alpha smirks, which is kinda charming. “What about yours?”

“This is my form out here. One of a few, but my favorite one.”

“I've noticed." He seems distracted, the world outside their bubble darkening. Alpha exhales, his breath fogging up in the sudden chill. "Well, I guess it pays to know what you are. Where you belong."

There's sadness trickling off the edges of their dream. He wants to shake it off, but isn’t sure he’d succeed. Which means it isn't his own... or they're mingling. In more ways than one. “You’d think so," he whispers. "How is that working out in the waking world?”

Alpha lets out a sordid laugh. “As you’d expect. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you live in the same one.”

“I do,” he amends. “Seems neither one of us has been dealt a decent hand, if we’re talking about this out here with a perfect stranger.”

The smile he receives is a real one. Heartfelt. A blend of naughty and sad. “I wouldn’t call us strangers, Angel.”

His heart hurts and he smiles back wistfully. It’s true, in a way, and somehow that makes it worse.


	32. Wise Men Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A subtle curiosity joins the moment and Victor peers at him as if he’s trying to see through Dean’s skin. He grins. “... What kind of dreams we talkin’ about, Winchester?”
> 
> Dean flusters against his will, suddenly hating himself for bringing it up, especially because he’s barely got anything tangible to go on. It’s a feeling, nothing more. “None of your business kinda dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvis' Can't Help Falling In Love to the rescue. How has 2021 been treating people so far?
> 
> Edit, cause whelp, I'm off by a day. *yawns* My time awareness is slipping, it seems -_-
> 
> Love,  
> Mal

Dean double checks the mags in each weapon, his focus going two ways. “Hey, Vic, question,” he says, keeping his eyes on the task at hand. 

“Shoot.”

Going for casual, he makes sure he’s got his best pokerface on. “You ever hear of people dreaming in episodes?”

“Episodes? You mean like a story?”

“Not really. More like… Recurring characters, I think.”

Victor shrugs, checking the sidepockets on his duffel for muck. He makes a face when he finds proof of used bubblegum in their wrappers.

“You people disgust me,” he says pointedly, tossing the stuff in the bin. “Not really, but then it isn’t exactly my forte. Maybe you should ask Sam or Charlie?”

“ _Hell_ , no.”

A subtle curiosity joins the moment and Victor peers at him as if he’s trying to see through Dean’s skin. He grins. “... What kind of dreams we talkin’ about, Winchester?”

Dean flusters against his will, suddenly hating himself for bringing it up, especially because he’s barely got anything tangible to go on. It’s a feeling, nothing more. “None of your business kinda dreams.”

Victor laughs. “Oh-ho-ho, you having yourself some hot and bothered dreams, Winchester? What? All chained up and…”

“Okay, shut it, alright. I don’t swing that way.”

“Sure, whatever. Nothing wrong with that kinda dreams." Victor gives him one of those easy smiles and a shrug. "The usual response to it would be that your dreams are trying to tell you something?”

He frowns, pursing his lips, and chances a look. “Like what?”

Victor claps him on the shoulder and leans in, tone conspiratory. “Get laid.”

He balks. “You’re no help.”

“You have Castiel, is what I’m saying.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m a hunter, man. Not some dream-interpreting witch. Now you good to go or do you need a beauty nap?”

“Alright, alright, enough. Move your ass!”

“That’s what he said.”

*

Castiel picks up the phone on the first ring. The first words out of Dean’s mouth make no sense. “Cas, are you okay?”

“Am I okay? What? Why?”

“Sam said you were upset, when he called you,” Dean says, tone annoyingly reasonable.

“Yes!” he fusses. “Because you got hurt! _Again_. I thought you were good at this. Are _you_ okay?”

Dean laughs and Castiel wonders how he can get it through his husband’s thick skull that him getting hurt really isn’t funny or normal or… “I’m fine." 

Or _fine_.

"Hey, I’ma put you on speaker for a bit. Gotta change.”

Now that visual _is_ fine.

“Are you two at it again?” another voice chimes.

Castiel rolls his eyes to no avail, because no one can see it.

“Are you rolling your eyes?" Dean laughs. "You’re rolling your eyes, aren’t you? Yeah. Ketch has opinions. Keep ‘em to yourself, alright?”

Castiel smiles, charmed by the protective tone in Dean’s voice. 

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he’s jealous,” Dean says smugly.

“Is he now?” Castiel teases, cheeks warming pleasantly at the thought of Dean bragging about him, for whatever reason.

“Duh. He snatched your note from me over lunch.”

“Why? It isn’t for him.”

“He wanted to sniff it.”

“Hey!” Castiel snaps, skin crawling. 

“Yeah. I saved it from that fate though,” Dean says. “But that’s a problem.”

He can hear the joy in Dean’s voice. Castiel ducks his head, as he imagines Dean might be wagging his eyebrows at Ketch or giving him a challenging wink or doing something else handsome and cute, and… he holds the phone closer to his ear.

“What is?” he asks, unable to stop himself smiling like an idiot.

“Ain’t it obvious? You’re making the boys jealous.”

“Plural, even,” Castiel hums, his heart somersaulting. “Sucks to be the boys then, doesn’t it?”

Benny’s barked laugh makes it through and he’s sure Ketch huffs in annoyance. “You’re a charmer, _cher_.”

“Benny,” he says sweetly. “Is Dean really okay?”

“Hush, Fangs. And, hey, now,” Dean protests, a warning slipping into his tone. “You questioning me? I’m okay. Really.”

He bites his lip, throwing caution to the wind, aware that he’s on speaker. His vision flashes golden, as he lets his Omega out to play. “Uh-hmm. Come home so I can confirm that for myself.

“Whoa…” Dean’s voice is dripping with honey when it dips low and soft. “Heh… Sure thing, sweetheart.”


	33. Sounds of Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas gestures at one of the trees. “I like this one.”
> 
> “Sure. We’ll need a ladder.”
> 
> Cas looks at him, a peculiar smile shaping those lips. “Do we?”
> 
> It takes one too many seconds before his penny drops and he goes ‘oh’ wordlessly. “Right. You want… up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a dead giveaway! Date number three. That isn't a date really.
> 
> Just so you know, I was having a shitty day last time I posted and your comments cheered me up considerably. So thank you for that <3
> 
> I hope you and yours are safe and sound, and able to do things you enjoy.  
> Love from a tired Mal *hugs*

Dean’s got his hands in his pockets, flicking the little heart-shaped rock over and over between his fingers, the smooth feel of it reassuring. Ahead of him, flanked by apple trees on either side, he watches Cas. He looks small in the orchard, but right at home, his scent blending beautifully with the fragrances of leaf and fruit. 

It’s one of those days, he thinks, frowning lightly against the glare of the sun. There are thoughts and feelings jumbling inside him, but he can’t line them up yet.

A bunch of pups rush past and down another aisle, baskets on their arms, an adult going into a jog to catch up with them.

“Have a good time, sir.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he smiles, accepting two baskets of their own.

 _Their_. Apparently he’s started thinking in plural. “You’re a sap, Winchester,” he mumbles to himself as he makes his way to Cas.

“I’m what?”

“Nothing,” he says, eyes wide. “Just… talking to myself, I guess.” He chuckles helplessly. “Ready?”

“Oh, yes,” Cas hums, sounding pleased.

He loops his arm through Dean’s. Walking this close, their hips go into that out of sync bumping for a bit, until they line up and it becomes smooth and easy. The soil under his boots gives way, softer than any surface they’re used to. Dean’s brain is doing funny things, while he takes in the sunlight rippling over the green leaves - that vibrant, alive colour pop, which reminds him of his childhood home. Rich, because he was so small, the memories are pure imagery. They blend with his earliest memories of Cas.

“This was a lovely idea, Dean.”

Cas’ voice goes deep and soft, pulling Dean to him and his Alpha to the surface. His face is betraying him, he thinks, as he looks at Cas and smiles, mouthing ‘sure thing’. It must be, if only he understood it himself. All he wants to do is roll over for Cas. Expose his belly. He’s been craving their closeness intensely and has allowed it to happen more.

“These baskets are huge,” Cas says. “How many pies are you hoping we’ll bake?”

“Dozens,” Dean smiles, heart lifting. “But I’ve got a few other recipes I’ve been meaning to try out with you.”

Cas gestures at one of the trees. “I like this one.”

“Sure. We’ll need a ladder.”

Cas looks at him, a peculiar smile shaping those lips. “Do we?”

It takes one too many seconds before his penny drops and he goes ‘oh’ wordlessly. “Right. You want… up?”

The beaming smile and enthusiastic nod that begets is adorable enough to make him chuff. “Okay, uhm... Get up to the tree? For support.”

Cas goes easily, putting one hand to the bark, the basket dangling. Dean sets his own down.

“Ready?” It’s an unnecessary question, while he steps up behind Cas and bends through his knees. He grips Cas’ thighs, while he slips between his legs and nudges his shoulders firmly against his hams.

There’s a nervous giggle and Cas’ voice comes through muffled, because of thighs against his ears. “Yes!”

He works his strength and, okay, maybe he’s showing off, when he makes sure to lift Cas in one smooth go, a cute semi-howl his instant reward. Laughing, he uses the tree to balance himself, before navigating in a small circle. “You be my eyes, Cas. Where do you need me?”

“Hold like this for a sec.”

Cas’ muscles tense around his neck, shins pressing into his ribs, and he’s pleasantly warm. Dean inhales sharply, getting a nose full of apple, tree bark and, well, Omega. His Omega, really. The pencil and… parchment, he thinks it is, blends beautifully with the tangy sweetness. Gardenia. He rubs his cheek to Cas' thigh, until he catches himself doing so, but Cas doesn't seem to mind. He obeys Cas’ orders without so much as a second thought, moving with every ‘a little higher’ and ‘to the right, please’ or whatever else Cas wants.

He realizes Cas could probably ask him anything.

Cas strains and he lets out a cute, frustrated protest when he can’t reach. “I’m gonna climb it.”

“You are?" he pants out. "Of course you are.” He accommodates the almost instant fidgeting and gets a generous eyeful while Cas stands on his shoulders, then ascends. His arms remain outstretched, as if he’s still reaching for Cas or prepared to catch him, should he fall. As Cas climbs, his heart tumbles unpleasantly in by-proxy vertigo.

“What kinda recipes?” Cas asks. 

He squints against the light filtering through the branches. “Uhh, cobbler, for one. I also wanted to try tarte tatin. Aaaaand appletini.”

Cas laughs, while he parks himself on one of the thick boughs, his thighs squeezing down on it. “That sounds delicious, though I’m not sure we want to combine it all in one session.”

“Ever heard of a dessert buffet?”

Messy hair outlined against the leaves and sky, Cas leans over, eyes shining bright as he bestows that gummy smile on Dean. “Let me guess? It’s good for me.”

“Damn straight.”

“I can feel the wind more up here," Cas sighs happily. "You coming?”

“I’m not sure this tree is gonna like both our weights up there,” he says, gently patting the bark.

“In that case, catch.”

His reflexes make it easy enough. Cas laughs, as he catches the apple, throws it over his shoulder and lets it roll down his upper arm to his elbow, before nudging it and catching it in his other hand.

“Do you mind dented or nibbled ones?”

“Huh?”

“Some of these are a bit bruised. Or can I only pick the pristine ones?”

“Pick whichever ones you like.”

“Okay,” Cas hums. He alternates putting apples in his basket and throwing a few more to Dean, before he climbs back down. Dean catches him, getting a handful of warm skin under Cas’ shirt, and his fingers tingle. He wants more. Oblivious, Cas dusts off his pants. “I always feel guilty for the ones that don’t get picked, because they’re not smooth.”

Dean sighs and studies him. “You would feel guilty on behalf of fruit.”

Cas’ eyebrows shoot up and he puts his hand to Dean’s stomach, pushing. Surprised, Dean goes with it until his back makes contact with the tree trunk. “Are you calling me a softie, sunshine?”

Dean’s gaze is stuck on Cas’ face, all sharp lines and challenging smirk, while he’s acutely aware of Cas’ hand slipping under his shirt. “Only in the best sense of the word, sweetheart,” he drawls, cocking his eyebrow, curious about the vibe he’s getting from Cas. His heart picks up an interesting pace, when Cas crowds into his personal space.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me.”

He chuckles, part stunned, part excited. Maybe it’s the pollen on the air. Or spring. Or simply that it’s difficult to argue with… well, their bond. Dean snorted himself into a coughing fit the first time Cas used the word, but since then it’s taken root and grown - much like everything else about Cas. He hooks his fingers through Cas’ belt loops, pulling him closer, surrendering to the notion that’s been rattling around in his skull.

Here’s the thing.

He’s not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way he stopped getting out of bed for the hunts. Instead every day he gets out of bed, his thoughts immediately turn to Cas. To cooking for him and dates that aren’t really dates (this would be their third one, if they were dates) and just seeing Cas slumped over his coffee on those days where he slept badly, waiting for it to kick in. Listening to Cas talk endlessly about his classes, his stories, how he connects eco-activism to legends, how he coos at Pandora to get her to step onto his arm ( _Dean, she’s harmless_ ), how he goes from being hopelessly awkward to a fountain of words to _this right here_ , and… Dean is living for it. Him. Which is better than the mere surviving he might have been doing before.

His eyes fall shut when Cas kisses him. Both baskets thud to the grass and he’s sure one of them topples over, sending apples rolling, but he doesn’t care.

Some part of him trembles to pieces when the realization hits with all the subtlety of a Looney Tunes anvil.

They might stand a chance. They might just be real.


	34. Nocturnal Hekate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before bed, he wanted to dismiss it as infatuation. A fling. A mistake, perhaps, though that seems unkind. Regardless of his intentions set at the end of the day, they fly out the window along with him as he soars for the heavens. How easily this happens suggests it isn’t all his own doing, because the moment they found each other back, he stumbled into Alpha’s arms and let out a sobbed laugh when Alpha clung to him for dear life as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slippery slope, boys, slippery slope. Hekate (or Hecate) holds a special place in my heart, like quite a few of the ancient goddesses. In this case, she's important because of her affinity with the fields of crossroads and realms beyond those of the living.
> 
> *tosses confetti over these two dumbfucks*  
> They lucky they cute.
> 
> Hugs from a tired Mal who has no idea what she is doing tbh <3

He’s pure energy behind Castiel. Somehow tangible. Fingers leaving smoking trails on skin and wings alike, the tendrils of which dance up around them. Warm breaths anointing his skin. Weight that’s leaving impressions behind, like sleep lines on the most fragile parts of a body. He moans at the feel of warm lips on his spine. Hands on his back, angling him, and bows his head in supplication and surrender at once. Barely catches himself doing so, a dim, scrupulous part of him resisting this breach of trust.

He wants to feel this so badly, he’s afraid of it. To surrender to another’s strength safely, to know he’s in caring hands, while they do unspeakables no Omega has any business loving.

Before bed, he wanted to dismiss it as infatuation. A fling. A mistake, perhaps, though that seems unkind. Regardless of his intentions set at the end of the day, they fly out the window along with him as he soars for the heavens. How easily this happens suggests it isn’t all his own doing, because the moment they found each other back, he stumbled into Alpha’s arms and let out a sobbed laugh when Alpha clung to him for dear life as well.

An earthly layer wriggles its way into their bubble, sheets slipsliding around and between their limbs. He moves his wings, sending brightening gusts of wind through them, the scent of the sun and stars along with it. A curious ocean breeze joins in, one that triggers memories, but he doesn’t want to know whose reality is encroaching.

Out here, they can be good enough. A strange sentiment for him, but he realizes it’s coming off Alpha. He gives every Omega instinct freely to answer that feeling and soothe it. Confirm it. Promptly he arches his back when eager fingers, made of light, press into his hips, and his Omega yields all too willingly.

He doesn’t even have to ask. Fingers wrap into his hair, pinning him beautifully, while he’s still somehow free to move. To meet Alpha and get exactly what he wants. He breathes out encouragement when Alpha drapes over him, as they tumble and find a sturdy purchase, and everything goes rough in a wanton heartbeat. He responds to every growl with a snarl, until they might howl to the huge moon overhead. He twists and nips at Alpha, challenging him, and laughs through a few rough thrusts when that works.

His world goes golden and doesn’t filter back to normal for a long time. His wings flare, reaching for the ends of the known universes, a sense of freedom expanding with them, before they wrap around Alpha.

A lovely chuckle warms his neck at that possessive display and he’s pinned securely. The nip that follows sends what little restraint either of them still possessed off its hinges and suddenly they’re both caught in an upswirl of pleading and asking. He’s overwhelmed by how blended their need has gotten, unable to tell who wants this most. His eyes shoot up towards the heavens, their bubble submerged in an ocean of stars, a terrifying heat settling at his core, while he pants and laughs and breathes deeper than he ever has in the waking world, and the next thing he knows teeth breach through the skin on his shoulder.

His arms come up and over his shoulders to grab Alpha’s head. Keep him close, while he scrunches his eyes shut and the world explodes in a rush of white and dark red.

Castiel wakes with a gasp, all of him trembling, as he holds still - afraid to move. His body is cloyingly hot, teetering on the edge between pleasantly relaxed and completely fired up. Breathing isn’t as easy as it should be, because after that… that…  _ dream _ , this world, which smells entirely of his material home and everything Dean - cologne, laundry detergent, his hunter gear, food - and it’s such a shocking contrast, he has to stop himself from inhaling and throwing up. His stomach flips unpleasantly and he swallows the bile back down reflexively.

What just happened?

He groans in disgust when he becomes aware of the cooling stain in his pants, but it serves to get him on his feet and towards the bathroom. As he moves, he becomes aware of a burning sensation on his shoulder.

His clammy hand slips on the counter and he almost faceplants against the mirror. Steadying himself, he angles himself and almost faints then and there.

“Shit, no.”

The denial serves no purpose other than to will its version of the truth into existence, while his eyes are glued to the beautiful and horrifying proof adorning his skin. An oval of nice and  _ very  _ even bitemarks, blood dripping down his shoulder blade.

“Shit-fuck-shit.  _ What _ ?”

_ This  _ is what he gets for denying himself? Or indulging. He’s not sure. His hands tremble while he pulls at the muscle and skin, trying to get his fingers on it, and hisses when he does, the pain shooting through him. Okay, it felt a lot nicer in the dream. His brain’s already going through his rolodex of stories and history, in search of anything that’s even closely reminiscent of this.

When he hears noise, he freezes and pricks his ears. No clock here, so he doesn’t even know what time it is and he didn’t even check if Dean was home.

“Cas?”

“Yes,” he yelps, voice breaking, then scrapes his throat. “I… Yes, in the bathroom.”

He stays quiet, unsure what to do next. Dean can’t see this.

“Did you just get home?” he asks.

“No, it’s morning. You just made a racket.”

“I… Sorry, didn’t sleep too well and..” He grimaces as his mind takes the easy out. “My stomach’s upset. I was going to take a shower and, uh, get to school early. Got some work.”

Dean’s voice sounds closer when he speaks. Like, right outside the bathroom door-closer, and there’s a gentle knock that isn’t really a knock. “You’re not feeling okay and you wanna go to class?”

Castiel straightens up in panic.

“You okay, Cas?”

“Stomach,” he repeats, snapping. Anyone else would be able to smell that he’s lying and he feels guilty for the overwhelming relief he experiences that Dean can’t. “I’ll be okay. Just… a shower.”

There’s a hesitant silence on the other side, before he can sense Dean retreating. “Sure. Want me to make you breakfast? I’m up anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” he almost whines out, his Omega fussing.

“‘s Fine, sweetheart,” Dean yawns. “Omelet okay?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Castiel closes his eyes against the kindness that oozes through the timbre and the door, his skin crawling with his own deviancy. “Thank you, Dean…”

While he showers, he resolves to ensure he wasn’t fully lying to Dean. He wears three layers of dark clothing, hoping the blood won’t seep through. While they eat, he’s grateful for Dean’s natural quiet, though he doesn’t dare lean into the man or seek him out, as he lists all the sections in the college library he can visit to figure out what just took place and how far the consequences stretch.


	35. Paranoid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remind me why you aren’t collared? Must be some kind of deal you’ve got with the government,” Dean says casually. “Cause you’re looking like a poster boy for the problematic Alpha, douchebag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : start of angsty bit of the plot. Implied cheating (well...) and dysfunction. Angry Dean, guilty Cas.
> 
> Some of you were waiting for this, I think?
> 
> Paranoid by I Prevail for the title! Shiny by Tanstaanfl! Crowley is in there to hark back to the previous family dinner at the Novaks.
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal

“Useless, meddling pack of mudmonkeys,” Zachariah huffs, swirling his wine with clipped gestures. 

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. Next to the old man, Gabe leans away from him towards Naomi, ill-concealed disgust scrunching up his face.

“Mom,” Gabe whines.

Naomi looks surprised as well. Even for his doing, his uncle is being excessively contrary and he has no clue what provoked the man, sitting opposite him and Dean. It’s been a relatively enjoyable dinner so far, mainly because Dean’s been sort of in his space a lot. Hands hovering, the warmth just there, seeping through the fabric of his shirt or pants. Cute in its lack of subtlety, it confirms what Castiel’s been gleaning. They’re finally getting more at ease.

“Think they can stake claims everywhere, while _he_ can’t even claim what’s his.”

Castiel’s musing gets blown to bits by the words. He scowls, letting out a warning snarl. Fitting for Zachariah to bring up yet another insolent part of tradition. In front of Dean, no less.

Dean tucks his chin, like a bull about to charge, his whole body going taut and he’s baring his teeth. Rightfully so, because it’s beyond rude, even if everyone knows Nulls don’t do mating bites. Aren’t expected to even, though the families tend to appreciate the gesture. Betas do it often enough.

His shoulder burns.

“What?” Zachariah sneers. “It’s true. No wonder he’s running wild at college, for God’s sake.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Castiel asks.

“Cassie, really,” his mother says. “Zach has a point there.”

“Exactly. I know everyone’s dancing around it, but the truth of the matter is Omegas need to be claimed. A damned nuisance if they’re not, just asking for it. Better watch your back at college, boy.”

“ _Asking_ for what exactly?” Eyes impossibly cold, Dean’s voice drops into a dangerously low territory Castiel hasn’t heard before, but he imagines it’s part of the hunter package. He squirms in his seat, mind skipping two unhelpful ways, and shakes his head.

Zachariah makes a grand gesture, arrogance seeping off him. “Anything we can come up with, really.”

Dean sniffs, folding his arms on the table. “‘ _We_ ’ being Alphas.”

“Of course,” Zachariah says on a shrug. “Biology.”

“Remind me why you aren’t collared? Must be some kind of deal you’ve got with the government,” Dean says casually. “Cause you’re looking like a poster boy for the problematic Alpha, douchebag.”

The word ‘fearless’ springs to mind. Somehow it shouldn’t surprise him. _Holy shit…_ He didn’t expect this to escalate.

The room sounds like it’s pulled vacuum, Zachariah’s bulging eyes threatening to pop under Dean’s open hostility. Before they can, they instead flash dangerously red. The way Zachariah moves is anything but subtle and so unmistakable, the air goes tighter around them. Dean’s response even more so. And suddenly there’s that razor sharp edge of everything going to shit in the next few seconds.

Castiel rises from his chair, almost knocking his and Dean’s glass over in the process.

“If you insist on being such a mudmonkey yourself at _our_ table,” he snarls. “Here!”

He undoes a few buttons and yanks the shirt down his shoulder, angling himself, so he reveals the bite on his shoulder blade. The table goes eerily quiet, Zachariah freezing halfway in his move to grab Dean, still red eyes falling to the bite adorning Castiel’s skin.

Castiel doesn’t dare look at Dean, who he conveniently can’t see like this. Under his sternum, that cold-induced kind of chill blooms and he realizes he’s shaking under the wide-eyed and scrutinizing gazes of everyone at the table. Of what he's done.

“... Cas? Cas, baby…”

His heart lurches at the sweetly uttered nickname. New and so publicly revealed in one breath. Undeserving. He pulls his shirt back on and sheepishly turns towards Dean, acutely aware of Dean’s warm hand on his lower back. _Under_ his shirt.

“I think you made your point, baby,” Dean smiles.

His eyes, though, they’re harder than Castiel’s used to. So subtle, because he’s sure no one else but him can see it. Suppose they even could, they’re too busy processing the spectacle he just made of himself. Even Gabriel is rendered speechless.

“Well,” Naomi hums, eyebrows rising pointedly, while she reaches for her glass. “I trust that settles some of your concerns then, Zach? I do appreciate you looking out for my sons.”

Her voice goes tangibly vicious near the end, the warning Castiel tried to land echoed in her words. Zachariah, for his part, merely sniffs and throws Dean a disgusted look. Castiel almost laughs, when he sees Dean flash his canines at the man in a predatory grin. Instead he hurries to button himself up and sit back down, wishing for all the world a black hole would open underneath to take him far from here.

Potentially to the dream plane.

“And congratulations to you,” his mother adds, raising her glass. “It’s a relief for any parent to know their child is happy. Do handle my son with care.”

“Always,” Dean says. He sounds like himself again.

The arm that lands on the back of Castiel’s chair has a touch of possessiveness to it and he leans in, his Omega in turmoil at the breach of trust he so impulsively revealed.

With a sinking heart, he becomes aware of the subtle ways Dean’s behaviour shifts. Avoiding him.

*

The night air’s a welcome change from the oppressiveness of his parental living room. Or that’s what he expected. Instead it seems the feeling clings to the pair of them, wrapped around him like a sentient octopus-blanket. Dean’s face is like marble, caught in the shadows and glaring light of the street lamps when they pass under them.

“Our table, huh?”

“Oh, please,” Castiel huffs. “I only said that to remind him he’s pissing off mother. I hate that it even slipped out.”

“Why? It _is_ your table…”

“My table, or ours, such as it is, is at _our_ place. Not mother’s,” Castiel says, hating that he has to point it out. “I was merely trying to stop the situation from escalating.”

“Hmm.”

“For all the good it did me. The way she was looking at you for the rest of the night, it feels like I’m still the one who did something wr…”

Dean inhales sharply. 

He swallows the words, because it’s suddenly catching up appallingly fast that the bite isn’t Dean’s, he _did_ in fact do something wrong, even if it was on another plane of existence, and he just acknowledged something out loud. They’re alone. Castiel purses his lips and pointedly stares ahead, skin crawling uncomfortably under Dean’s intense attention. Baby comes into view.

It isn’t a particularly long drive home, but it feels excruciating. Dean’s obviously waiting for him to speak up.

All things considered, he should.

But his mind’s a stunned blank. There are no words.

Tendons flexing, Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens, the longer the silence holds, until Castiel fears he might snap it in two. He swallows, eyes going hot with impending tears, which he bites back with all he has. He has no right to them.

A heat builds in Baby and presses down on him, both of them mutely getting more and more worked up until the poor car feels like she might burst. He all but stumbles out the passenger door as soon as Dean parks her, breathing in the stuffy, but thankfully cooler air of the underground parking.

He catches Dean looking at him over Baby’s gleaming roof, like he’s about to say something, but Castiel hurries to the elevator to press the button. Living in the penthouse apartment has consequences and he doesn’t think he can take much more of this.

They stand on either side of the elevator, backs pressed against the wall. Facing each other, oddly, and suddenly he’s caught in Dean’s gaze again. He’s expecting the coldness, but there’s a pain shimmering through that’s making him nauseous. The elevator becomes smaller with every passing second.

Why does this keep happening?

He squirms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, catching the mirror image from the corner of his eyes, and he’s sure his face is pleading with Dean not to. Perhaps that’s what sets him off.

“I know I told you ‘whatever you need to be comfortable with this’, but _this_ ,” he says tightly, baring his teeth, “isn’t exactly what I meant.”

Tongue-tied, he can only carry the weight of both Dean’s eyes and his words. Besides, what can he say? _It was my dreamwalker Alpha friend._ That’ll go over well.

He wonders if this is the breaking point and his heart is encased in pure ice, eye widening.

“You could have told me… Or asked for an arrangement for all I care.”

The last words are slung with precision, creating more distance than the elevator can.

“I don’t want an arrangement,” he bites. “It’s not… It’s not like that.”

Looking away, Dean's brow knits together, as he clenches his teeth hard enough for Castiel to hear the grind. An intense heat scalds his face and he’s so overwhelmed, all he can do is look how many more floors. Wish for the numbers to change faster.

He breathes a little easier when the doors slide open with that little ‘ding’ sound.

Dean’s overly polite, borderline caustic hand gesture to let him go first sets his hackles up. He’s acutely aware of Dean behind him, while he unlocks the front door. They discard jackets and shoes, keys landing in the bowl on the sideboard. Tucked underneath it are several of the notes he’s been writing Dean, and his chest feels constricted.

“Dean… It’s not what you think.”

“I’m sure,” Dean says. The deadpan tone chills Castiel to his core and he loathes he’s responsible for it, nausea in its wake when the next words come out bitter. “Glad his claim could save our faces.”

It goes without saying they sleep in separate beds. He’s not expecting to find much sleep, but scared what will happen if he does.

*

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week, at least.”

Castiel knows punishment. He recognizes it, even when it isn’t communicated as such. His mother excels in that department. In this case, however, it isn’t his mother doling it out, unless she’s suddenly in cahoots with Dean.

“A week,” he echoes in defeat. “You’ve never been gone that long.”

“Yeah, well, my mother wants us to recover an artefact for yours, so take it up with them.”

“Why you?”

Dean bares his teeth, slamming another item into his duffel with too much force. Castiel wishes he could be packing something, so he would have the excuse to throw things around. Instead he’s gotta keep a lid on his emotions. “Because we’re the only ones who can reach it. For whatever fucking reason. I wasn’t paying attention during the debrief. What do _you_ care?”

He blanches and wraps his arms around himself, swallowing the ‘I care about you’, because that won’t land well. It’ll be filtered through the event they don’t talk about, ever since it happened. Though he expected the guilt, he didn’t expect to feel this horrendously miserable in the wake of it, but he does. Shivers, sweats, fever, the works, and it won’t let up. Gabriel called to ask how he was doing and he managed to convince his brother that everything’s fine, even when nothing is.

He barely sleeps, which may be a self imposed punishment.

“Will you be able to keep in touch?”

“I doubt it.” For the first time since he started packing, Dean makes baleful eye contact. “You’ll have free range.”

Before Castiel can respond, his anger flaring hotly, Dean turns away. He’s not sure if what he hears is Dean muttering under his breath or growling, but his skin crawls either way and he flinches when the door slams shut. For a while he stares at it, until he realizes he's crying.

He calls Anna.


	36. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants this one. To sink his teeth in and own him. His. No one else’s. His to claim and drink up. Watch those haunting eyes, full of fear, begging for forgiveness, until the life goes out of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More waking hour angst coming soon, but first some dream angst. Have fun!
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal
> 
> P.S. Have to use public transport today. We no longer have a car since job loss. Fingers crossed I guess.

Beyond the edges of humanity is where his true form lies. Its intent dances across his spine, playing a tune on his bones and tendons that’s a lure to all that’s dark and demands space. Chains of blackened iron, oozing thick liquid, string him up, while he gives into the chase. His nails scrape and catch on the floor, sending sparks flying, while the grinding sound spurs on his prey. They’ll need to be faster. They never are.

He’s looking through two pairs of eyes, both of them coated in red. One is in charge, the other a passenger in the back of his mind, roaring himself hoarse to stopstopstop, because he _knows_ this prey. His mane shakes in denial, a furious rumble crescendoing. In rejection, because this prey deserves no less than to be ripped apart.

He wants this one. To sink his teeth in and own him. His. No one else’s. His to claim and drink up. Watch those haunting eyes, full of fear, begging for forgiveness, until the life goes out of them.

These chains don’t hold him back. They’re at his beck and call, rushing forward, rattling, scraping, until they wrap around an ankle. He lets him escape, relishing the upsurge of panic, his breath ratcheting up, and he stumbles, while he tries to go faster. He howls and laughs, a peculiar blend of entities. He’s playing with his food.

The little voice is threatening him. So foolish and naive. 

_This is what we need. Who we are. They’ll collar us, deny us, mock and use us, and then we are cast aside?_

This prey is a true challenge. He has wings. Delicate, beautiful, little things, those feathers. So small in comparison to him as he pushes off and chases him through the air. He’s trying to escape to his stars. Babbling too, though he’s past the point of understanding anything that isn’t his own instinct.

_No stars where we are going. Only the darkness. Where I belong._

His clawed hands reach out, feathers soft and fragile, right before he bends and breaks them. The chains wrap around his struggling prey, his legs, his waist, pinning his arms. He pulls the hair, forcing his neck bare.

He lets out a deep growl, when a graceful, blue light meets him. Blinds him. It’s coming from _inside_ this one. From his core. His heart? His mouth waters at the thought of owning that too, even while it hurts as it shines brighter and brighter, and _burns_ him.

It’s taking him apart. Or trying to. He sinks teeth and claws in soft flesh, as they tumble through the dark. The deep below.

Blood floods his mouth, alongside that delicious, blue energy. Something else is fighting him on this and he clamps his jaws down tighter, eyes flaring red.

_Mine._

His arm twists between them. Then his leg, and suddenly he is kicking his prey off of him, teeth and claws tearing flesh as they part and tumble through the empty. He howls with rage and abandon, reaching, but that same force struggles against him. Pulls him back with impossible strength.

Knees at his back. Hands at his throat. He watches as his prey falls away from him, those bright blue eyes sliding shut when he goes unconscious.

He turns on his assailant, a creature of bright, green eyes and golden light from the heart. Snarling, he rushes forward, hellbent on ripping him to shreds. He doesn’t need him. And the boy can’t control him, no matter how much he wants to.


	37. Let's Hurt Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been not talking with so much strained conviction for days now, he can feel the air around them boiling, as if a volatile physics process kicks in the closer they’re together. Dinner hasn’t been the same since. Dean’s taken to cooking earlier in the day, often when Castiel isn’t home, and in bigger batches, so they can rely on leftovers more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : continued angst, fighting between Cas and Dean. Furious Dean, Cas trying to connect. NO resolution yet in this chapter.
> 
> This actually took a lot of effort and energy to write. It's quite personal in what sparked it, which, I guess, helps. I usually don't like much angst between my characters, but I hope I got some of it right.
> 
> Much love,  
> Mal

“Cassie, darling,” Anna sighs. “I know you’re sensitive to conflict, especially when you feel you’re to blame…”

“I _am_ to blame,” he says testily.

The ice cream she bought him goes a way towards keeping him occupied, because it’s melting and the focus that requires prevents him from losing his temper or surrendering to his sadness. Barely. She’s already smiled him back from the brink of breaking out in tears.

Anna’s a different creature than he is though. Her morals, at least when it comes to the more intricate parts of living a human life, are more loosey goosey. So he’s not surprised when she shrugs, unimpressed with the guilt trip he’s been oozing all over her. “Well, yes, I get that, but, please, it was a dream. Perspective?”

“A dream that brought a bite back to the material world. Have you heard of that before?”

“True mate?” she suggests sweetly.

He lets out a strangled sound and stares at her, the hair on his head palpably standing on end.

“I’m kidding.”

“What if he is?!”

She widens her eyes in faux-concern. “Okay, that was clearly the wrong thing to say.”

“You think? But you can’t unsay it.”

She sighs, visibly put out by the turn the conversation’s taking. “The bite faded. Let’s assume if he was your true mate, that wouldn’t have happened. Have you talked to anyone else about this? Try and get a read on what it means?”

“No,” he says with a scoff. “I’m distressed, not stupid.”

“Really?” She rests her head on his shoulder, while they walk, taking some of the sting out of the sarcastic response. “Cassie, having a fellow dreamwalker hardly sounds like anything the courts will hold against you.”

“It isn’t the courts I’m worried about.”

“That stunning husband of yours,” she sighs. “Do you believe he’s aboveboard?”

“Dean? About what?”

“Your marriage versus his loyalty to his family.”

“I think so? Stuff about work just gets mentioned. Sometimes it passes smoothly, sometimes it passes like a kidney stone. Especially since my mother’s been determining their missions more? In exchange for access to our inventory and resources to deal with supernatural beings, no doubt. But I’ve never flatout asked him if he’s working both sides.”

“So you’ve been operating under the assumption that he isn’t.”

“Yes. And I’m hardly one for intricate deception myself.”

She laughs. “I know. Pretty sure it’s been your saving grace when it comes to the family business.”

“What? Because mother knew I’d fail?”

“Because she knew she wouldn’t be able to control you. Not fully.”

“Yet I still got married off.”

“Any Omega’s lot, I fear,” she says, grimacing in annoyance. “Though you managed to keep a dream plane lover from Dean. Maybe you’re learning.”

“Don’t… call it that. I’m sure Dean keeps secrets too.” He scowls at the truthful assessment, while he sucks on the end of the cone, before the treat leaks into his sleeve. “I’m getting fed up with that. This was supposed to be a chance at something new and it’s gone all wrong.”

“Hmm,” she nods. “I have a question though. You may not like it.”

“Shoot.”

“You wanted to take this chance with Dean, right?” He nods, knowing she’s working up to something, and part of him can sense it coming. “Which means you went into that marriage, intent on giving it a shot. What led you to open yourself up to that Alpha on the dream plane in the first place?”

“Stupidity,” he says and promptly regrets it. “No, that’s… That’s not true. It’s not like we instantly threw ourselves upon each other.”

“Are you saying you built it slow? Like courting?”

His teeth grind together at her tone. “You are _not_ helping.”

“I’m trying to understand and if you’re going to fix any of this, so should you.”

Disengaging from her, Castiel licks his fingers clean, before he wipes them on the napkin, scowling at the world. 

“Alpha wasn’t even… He isn’t a lucid dreamer and you know what it’s like there. Not like everything is perfectly outlined.”

“I know,” she nods. “But you still allowed him close and vice versa. So what was missing with Dean?”

He physically turns from her at the blunt words, scrabbling for entrance at a part of him he wants to keep closed off. The excuse of binning the napkin buys him a few seconds. She follows him, allowing the silence to stretch. At least it isn’t as uncomfortable as the ones with Dean have become.

“Nothing anymore,” he says. “If we can get through this, that is. Nothing is missing from Dean… I… I lo...” He slams his mouth shut when his insides constrict like a nest of snakes. Okay, no, those words aren’t going to come out in one piece without him breaking down.

“But at first?” she pries gently.

“It was an arranged marriage, Anna… How could I not go in with some reservations?” He swallows hard against the pain that’s expanding in his chest. “Dean made it clear from the start that expectations were a bad idea, but I’m pretty sure we both had them anyway and just waited for them to be met without talking about what they were.”

“Smart.”

“Hey, I’m not above pushing you into the canal.”

She leans back on the bridge’s balustrade, glancing at the water over her shoulder. “So what exactly was missing, Cassie? You’re stalling.”

“I know what you’re fishing for, if that’s what you mean.”

He sighs, closing his eyes, and turns his face up towards the sun, willing his forehead and the parts around his eyes to relax. This deep in the city at this time of day, there’s only a few slivers that make it through the forest of skyscrapers.

“It isn’t that,” he says eventually.

“So it’s not because Dean isn’t an Alpha.”

His body convulses uncomfortably, his heart beating hard at the words, and he casts furtive glances around, to see if anyone’s paying attention.

“No, and I’d appreciate it if you kept it down.”

“Are you sure? You’ve always had a bit of a…”

“Yes, thanks for the reminder, but no, it doesn’t factor into this.”

Full disclosure, he’s not one hundred percent sure of that. He is, however, sure that he’s genuinely affected by the distance that grew between himself and Dean, so he can’t be lying to himself. _It’s complicated_ doesn’t begin to cover this.

“I wouldn’t be this upset if it was just that,” he says.

“Okay, good. But I am still concerned about your needs not being met.”

“An overactive imagination isn’t a need that has to be met. Yes, I’m still curious and my Omega… I suppose there may be needs there? Who knows? But Dean and I haven’t…”

He bites his tongue, but Anna’s nothing if not quick on the uptake, when it comes to _those_ matters.

“You… What?! You haven’t had…” He shushes her before she can complete the sentence at full volume and, thankfully, it works, as she dials it back down to a bit of a dramatic whisper. “You haven’t had _sex_?”

Cheeks burning, he shakes his head, avoiding her gaze. "Some stuff. Not all the way."

From the corner of his eyes, he’s aware of her processing this, the softer side of her bleeding through while she does, before she shakes her head curtly.

“No wonder you’re putting out in your dreams. Shouldn’t you hop to it already?”

“It’s not exactly in the cards right now. And don’t you think I would have done so already, if it was that simple?”

“You forget I saw that kiss in the church. Pretty sure sparks would have flown if there had been any lights nearby. What went wrong?”

Castiel lets his head fall back, cheeks puffing up while he exhales dramatically. “I did a stupid thing on the first night of our honeymoon.”

“What brand of stupid this time?”

He laughs helplessly, the memory by now both fond and excruciating. “I… We were in the water. Nighttime. I sort of crawled into his lap,” he ignores her sparkling eyes, “we kissed, and, I don’t know what happened, but Dean was… He had me pinned and I tried to scent him, but of course… Nothing.”

“He had you pinned?” she asks delicately.

“That’s what you’ll focus on?”

“It’s interesting, is all.”

“Hey, our genders don’t determine what we’re into, okay? Now focus.”

“Uh-huh, kinda the point I was making earlier, but sure, I’ll tag along. So… you scented him, found nothing, of course, and then what?”

“That’s where it derailed, cause I blurted that out and, well, he took that about as well as you’d expect.” He grimaces. “Actually, he took it really well, but maybe that set the tone.”

“I’d be surprised if it hadn’t.”

“Alright, Freud, what do you suggest I do about it? Cause scent or not, I don’t want to lose him.”

She shakes her head, arms going wide in disbelief, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Fucking _talk_ to each other!”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Clearly we’re both wired perfectly for that! Why didn’t I think of it before?”

“What’s the alternative? I mean, how it has been sounds hardly tenable, not since that lovely soap opera moment at the Novak dinner table, which, by the way, I’m so sorry I missed out on.”

“Ask Gabe. I’m sure he’ll draw you pictures to go with it.”

“You need to set this right, Cassie.”

“I know. But I can’t tell him about the Alpha on a dream plane. It’s not exactly fair competition.”

“True, but you’ll need to address it somehow, at least if you want to salvage whatever it is you two had. Have.”

He hums in agreement, because he knows she’s right.

*

They’ve been _not_ talking with so much strained conviction for over a week now, he can feel the air around them boiling, as if a volatile physics process kicks in the closer they’re together. Dinner hasn’t been the same since. Dean’s taken to cooking earlier in the day, often when Castiel isn’t home, and in bigger batches, so they can rely on leftovers more.

He’s been trying to figure out a way to corner Dean, but the man’s a force to be reckoned with when he stomps around their home, his every fibre screaming to not even _think_ about talking to him. The spare room has, for all intents and purposes, become Dean’s. He’s cleaning his weapons and even watching television on his laptop there. There’s a distinct increase in ‘hunts’, but Castiel knows he’s hanging out with Benny or Charlie. He can smell it on him and both of them told him. Anyone, clearly, as long as it isn’t with Castiel.

Their place feels empty and he cries himself to sleep more than he likes to admit, which has to stop. So instead of allowing the silence to reign supreme while they do the dishes, he breaks it, glad his voice isn’t shaking with nerves.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” he asks.

Dean keeps his gaze on the water in the sink, efficient as ever, though his eyebrow cocks up minutely. Working his lips, he seems to mull the question over.

“For the time being…”

“Yes. How _long_ is that going to be?”

He hates how small that sounds, but it’s out.

“I don’t know.”

“I.. I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Dean grimaces as if he cut himself on a knife underwater and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It is what it is, Cas. Don’t sweat it.”

“Can you please stop dismissing me… Ignoring me. I know I messed up.”

“Forget it. I have.”

 _Like hell you have_ , he thinks, but bites back the remark. Instead he inhales sharply at the offhanded gesture Dean uses to almost wave him away and holds his ground. “Well, I haven’t. It isn’t right.”

“It ain’t, but that’s the way you made it. So I suggest you make your peace with that,” Dean bites. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you really don’t wanna have this conversation.”

For the first time in days, Dean makes genuine, albeit exceptionally baleful eye contact, his jaw clenching. He leans one hand on the edge of the sink, tendons flexing. His shoulders are tight and he looks every bit the hunter Castiel’s gotten to know over the past months. His mouth goes dry at the implied threat. Digging deep, he finds the strength he needs to match Dean’s anger with his stubbornness, fueled by guilt.

“Cause you’ll get angry?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, tough, you’ve _been_ angry. You’ve removed yourself from both cooking and tea time, so if this conversation is what needs to happen to get past that…”

His gesture has ‘have at me’ all over it.

Dean studies him, his face a carefully crafted blank that unsettles Castiel, and he rolls his shoulders back, holding still under the intense scrutiny. He can see the consideration ripple across Dean’s face, debating whether to take Castiel’s offer. Maybe he’s even hoping Dean will tear him a new one, because as lost as he sometimes feels on his Alpha, he deserves to be chewed out.

With a tired sigh, Dean shakes his head a few times, and narrows his eyes at him, while he wipes his hands. Slowly, Dean rises to his full length, his muscles loosening up a bit. The way he looks at Castiel makes him feel like… prey.

“What did I do?”

“Wh… What?”

“Let me remind you. I told you from the start, right? ‘Whatever you need to feel comfortable with this.’” He enunciates the words as if Cas is a particularly slow student. His hand goes wide in a sarcastic gesture, slinging water drops and foam over the floor. Annoyed, he wipes it on his thigh. “All you had to do was ask. So _what_ did I do wrong?”

“You… No! You didn’t do anything wrong. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s nothi…”

Abruptly, Dean gets in his face, teeth bared, his finger pointing with enough harsh, angry intent, Castiel’s shoulder blade burns, even though it’s healed. He freezes, caught in the green of Dean’s pin-prick eyes. “That _bite_ ,” he growls, “is _not_ nothing and don’t you fucking dare sell me that lie. I fucking sm...”

Sniffing loudly, Dean wipes his hand over his mouth as if he’s silencing himself. He’s still scowling at Castiel, but backs off the next second. Castiel takes a few shaky breaths, willing his tense muscles to ease up.

“Look… I know how this sounds. It isn’t you…”

Dean lets out a sordid laugh, eyes coasting to the heavens. There’s a flash of pain in them that pulls Castiel bodily towards him..

“It’s you? Yeah, Cas, which means there’s something not right for you, yet you decided to keep me out of it. How far into this marriage did we get?”

Castiel stutters, trying to find something, anything to say that can convince Dean, while his guilt is slowly taking him apart on the inside. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… It was… I shouldn’t have…”

“Look, I’m used to it, alright?” Dean’s voice cuts like cold steel. “I just hoped with everything we had going on that it would’ve at the very least been worth a conversation.”

_We had going on._

Castiel scrambles for words. “I… Yes, you’re right. It is. _You_ are.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says caustically, leaving the silence hanging. 

It begs Castiel to fill it and explain himself, and this is the part of the scenario where he always loses the plot, because he can’t justify himself. Either he makes up a fake Alpha, who Dean then tries to peg - heaven forbid he wrongly concludes it’s Balthazar or someone else from college, or he tells him the truth and… and he doesn’t know how or where to take it from there. It’s unheard of, as far as his research has brought him.

Not only that, but he wants to make amends.

It sinks in.

“What do you mean you’re used to it? Used to what?”

Dean clenches his teeth and every muscle in his body locks up with it.

*

Dean’s not sure where the words keep coming from or why he even bothers. It used to be simple. Betray his trust, you’re done. Or dead. Either/or, and the end result is the same. Out of his life. One of the simpler Winchester mottos and one he used to be good at. But none of those in his past were ever tied to him the way Cas is, and he’s not just referring to the paperwork that binds them. He’s livid, not stupid or blind.

It’s taken everything he has not to crumble at the hurt he catches in every line of Cas’ face and the way he holds himself, awkward, stilted, as if he’s uncomfortable in his own body or around Dean. Likely both. He avoids Dean’s eyes like the plague, something neither of them is used to - and it’s only been months. Months of living with an Omega and his biology is tugging him every which way. All of this only fuels his anger, because he doesn’t _want_ to be this susceptible to Cas. He doesn’t want to be attuned to him and he sure as fuck wants to stop caring. Okay, maybe he _is_ stupid. On top of that, it’s all kinds of hypocritical the way he's been having a go at Cas for not talking to him, when he's living on a mountain of secrets. So he digs into the easiest emotion, the one that’s gotten him through his whole life.

“This, Cas. This kinda bullshit, where it’s almost within range and then,” Dean snaps his fingers, the sound loud enough to make Cas visibly jump. With an angry little snarl, he falls silent so he can clamp down on his Alpha, frothing at the mouth. Cas has to get the point, right, even when Dean doesn’t quite know what the point is beyond a resounding _‘you’ll never get what you want and always what you deserve’_. Which is to say nothing that even closely resembles a normal life.

Cas glares daggers at him and he can’t help but be impressed. He expected nothing less from his… _this_ Omega, truth be told, and it hurts all the more to know he _isn’t_ Dean’s.

“You can’t say stuff like that and expect me to not react to it. What do you mean?”

“Hey, I’m not the one with a bite mark on his shoulder, alright?! So you can pipe the fuck down.”

“Mind your damn tone. I may have made a mistake, which I’ll own up to, that doesn’t mean I have to submit to being your verbal punching bag.”

Dean winces, because that hits home in making him sound just like Mary.

“I am angry, Cas, I think I’m allowed. But give it a few more days and I’m sure I’ll be over it. Then we can get to the real pretending. Just pay me the courtesy of keeping me in the loop this time around.”

Cas balks, blinking fast, though whether it’s against impending tears, Dean’s vitriol or something else, he can’t tell.

“We aren’t pretending,” Cas snaps, voice breaking. "I know it looks bad right now, but…”

“Ya think? I’m still waiting for you to start explaining it away.”

“Dean, it really isn’t what you think…”

“Then what the fuck is it, Cas?” he barks. “Some Alpha in the Novak ranks? Hmm? Some Naomi Novak approved fuckboy that can _breed_ you?”

Instantly outraged, Cas snarls at him, eyes lighting up bright and fierce. Holy shit. Dean breathes in deep, taking Cas’ soured furious scent along with it, consciously or not, his body trembling with the effort of reeling in his Alpha at this display. He's unsure what he wants to do: throttle Cas or kiss him.

“It _isn’t_ any of that.”

“Just cause you keep repeating that don’t make it any less…” 

His heart hammering wildly, blood throbbing in his ears, he tries to focus. Painful. A betrayal of his trust, surprising himself in the process that he _gave_ it in the first place. He hates how dramatic it sounds in his head, loathes how idiotic he feels even more and is starting to get genuinely worried about his Alpha breaking free.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Dean.”

He recoils physically, a pathetic whine wrenched out of him, Cas’ words alien to his ears, because no one ever says those and _means_ them. Except Cas. Cas just might, if Dean didn’t know any better.

“Enough.”

“Dean, please… What do you mean when you say you’re used to it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. You’re in pain and I’m responsible for it. Besides the obvious, I’d like to understand…”

Dean holds his tongue, the sentiment Cas is fishing for bubbling to the surface, the venom it brings in its wake enough to poison them both. To lay him bare in ways he can’t afford to be.

“Dean…”

He closes his eyes against the soft, warm, honeyed way his name rolls off Cas’ lips, an echo of the time they spoke his name in a now broken promise. 

“Dean, please,” Cas whispers. 

The hairs on his arm rise, the second he becomes aware of Cas’ fingers on his skin. Its effect is agonizing, electricity shooting up the limb, setting off constellations of pain all over his body, where it remembers Cas’ touch. This can’t be normal, he thinks blearily, while he pushes Cas off. His vision bleeds red for a moment when he turns on Cas, roaring.

“Goddamnit, Cas, don’t! It’s nothing new, alright? I don’t get to have this! Y… _you_ ,” he almost chokes on the word, his arm flailing wildly to encompass their home. “I don’t get anything that’s… that’s _real_ , cause I clearly ain’t worth the time, the honesty or even a conversation!”

Like Baby skidding to a last-second, tyre-burning halt, Dean hits a wall - blindsided and unforgiving. His vision whites out, while his mood instantly levels out to dangerous calm.

“Stick a fucking fork in me,” he mutters. “I’m done. _We_ ’re done.”

He ignores Cas’ protests and turns away. Grabbing the bottle of Jack from the cabinet, he vanishes into the spare room, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the very bones of their home.


	38. Hypnos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s read about it. The Empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : just in case.. very confused and forlorn Cas in dreams. 
> 
> I forgot to add this when posting. Sorry.
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal

Castiel isn’t sure how he got here, but he knows he’s stuck until he wakes up. This plane of existence… He’s read about it. The Empty. Fallen angels shouldn’t be able to get here, but he suspects he had help in going this deep. He senses outwards, but finds no boundaries to push against. No end to the surrounding, inky depths. Of nothing.

Everything hurts. His wings are broken, which means he can’t fly his way to safety, even if there were boundaries to seek out and cross. He also can’t go look for _him_. Probably just as well. He deserves nothing less than to be down here, lost and forgotten. Yes. That sounds right. Nothing else makes sense, but that does. He curls in on himself, arms around his knees, and floats. No control, no purpose.

Only being in the dark.

He has trouble breathing. Perhaps because there are no scents to be found. Nothing to anchor or orient himself on. The Empty is a vacuum, a place devoid of life and connections and everything that weaves together anything of importance. Hearts. Souls. Lives. Bonds. Glancing around, he stifles the broken sounds forming in the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears welling up. Agony fills him until he overflows, drowning in it.

His guiding stars have been extinguished, but there’s something worse. A terrifying, bone-chilling cold is running through his veins, humming a discordant, gruesome lullaby. A story so old, it lies beyond the scope of his language, but one he’s somehow read between the lines countless times. Of reaching out to connect and finding only emptiness there. No one to grasp his hand and lock eyes with. No one who smiles at him and tries to understand what makes Castiel _himself_. No one who remembers the little things or looks after his best interests. No one who somehow decides out of everyone out there, he’s the one.

He wails when his wings tremble and shake in an attempt to wrap around himself. Pain cuts through them and shoots up his spine, until he’s all but paralyzed, his head throbbing dully. His grace flickers like a dying flame, sputtering valiantly to stay alive. Wisps extend out from his core. He never considered his grace to be a fragile essence until now.

Tendrils of sage smoke, curling through the air, bright enough that the blue turns white. Drawing patterns, reaching for life, a foothold, a vessel, a place to belong after so long of being away from Heaven. Castiel might not remember much, but the oldest part of him does, and there are still memories obscured from even his dreamer self’s eye.

In here, with nothing left but the empty, perhaps he might get to see them. One last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes started. So much input. Haven't had to do that for a while. This will take some getting used to. We're going to find out just how some things affect me.
> 
> Hope you're all safe and sound, and have something pleasant to look forward to today 💛  
> Love,  
> Mal


	39. Lost Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cas,” Dean says plaintively. “What are you…
> 
> “Just…” Quickly he strips, shakes the shirt off his wrist when the sleeve catches, and turns around so Dean can see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : mild angst, no resolution but seeking rapprochement. (I thought there would be a less French word for that.)
> 
> Critters, I'm tired (but then, I often am). Online classes are a godsent (no personal car and public transport is a joke), but I'm still tired. An endeavour, for sure.
> 
> Have a lovely weekend 💛  
> Love, as always,  
> Mal

They have another ‘date’ coming up and he’s been trying to figure out how that’s going to go, until Dean told him he wasn’t joining. So in a last ditch effort, he corners Dean in the bathroom after another exhausting night, which he wishes had been dreamless. At least he seems to have given up on finding Alpha. 

Ignoring Dean’s fidgety protests, Castiel unbuttons his shirt, his nerves singing through his veins. Not like he hasn’t been naked in front of Dean before, but there’s more vulnerability involved under the current circumstances. They haven’t been in the bathroom or bedroom together for weeks.

“Cas,” Dean says plaintively. “What are you…”

“Just…” Quickly he strips, shakes the shirt off his wrist when the sleeve catches, and turns around so Dean can see. “It’s gone.”

Dean’s fingers are immediately on his shoulder. He trembles, but holds still, except for his right hand. He reaches behind him in search of Dean, loosely wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist. Searches out his pulse and almost sighs when Dean doesn’t pull away the way he has every time since that horrid fight.

“It’s gone. Just… Don’t worry about it anymore, okay? It was temporary.” 

“So not real?” 

Silence.

“So it wasn’t real?” Dean presses.

He squeezes down on Dean’s wrist. “I know we are.”

It’s dodging the truth, because as much as he wants to give Dean the answer he wants to hear, he can’t deny the reality of what the dream was. That feels like not only a denial, but a betrayal.

“I want this, Dean,” he says without looking at him and pushes on before he can reconsider the wisdom of what he’s saying. He knows it’s true. Apparently Gabe was right all along that you can love more than one person. It’s just that Dean’s real and his Alpha… Well, he is too, but he isn’t married to him. “You. I’m sorry I hurt you. There’s nothing I can say to undo what happened, but I can show you this and I can tell you… I want you. You’re real. This is real. We _can_ have this.”

There’s a long silence. Long enough for Castiel to shiver, which makes Dean tug at his shirt to help him. He buttons it back up, turning around to sneak a glance at him. Dean’s annoyingly difficult to read when he wants to be, but he looks a little less tense than before.

“Why… and how? How did you do that, Cas?” 

He hasn’t figured out this part yet. “Difficult to explain. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

“Oh, because that isn’t dodgy as fuck _at all_.”

With a sigh, he leans on the bathroom counter. “Look, does it matter how? It’s gone. It shouldn’t have been there. I just… I knew they were gonna be difficult.” 

“They? Who… You mean your mom and Zach?”

“Mainly, yes, but anyone. At school… I've gotten comments for being unmated, even though I'm married.”

Dean’s nostrils flare, while he inhales, his mouth curving down, all of him oozing suspicion and, in a sick twist, protectiveness. Castiel recognizes that in his husband easily. “There were probably a million things we could have done about that, which didn’t entail _that_.”

“True. I didn’t think it through.”

“No, you didn’t. But it doesn’t line up.”

“What?”

A flash of a cynical smile. “Simply put? You suck at lying, Cas.” 

He squints at him in anger, hackles up, because if it’s _lies_ Dean wants to talk about, he’s got another thing coming. “We can’t all be like you, Dean. And I did tell you it wasn’t what you thought. I hope this proves that at least.”

Dean, of course, ignores the jab. “All the same, I’m not going. Whatever it was, I still have no real clue and now that it’s gone, what’s the point, right?”

Hands in his hips, Castiel considers this battle versus the war he feels he’s fighting. They were supposed to do better after showing this, but that was probably too naive a hope. “Fine.” 

“But Charlie wants to join. I mean, I don’t think it’s a choice at this point.”

Castiel groans. “She knows everything?”

“What, like you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Fair,” he grumbles, rubbing at his forehead.

He can tell by the way Dean moves the conversation came to its end.

*

“We should probably go,” Castiel says, sounding dejected even to his own ears.

Glancing outside, he strains to see Dean, who is reading a book in one of the deck chairs. On the table, Pandora is eyeballing Dean. Since a few days, she has become very cheeky and fearless, approaching them during dinner and now while there isn’t even food on the table. Nothing that she likes anyway - she hates the sugary stuff as much as Dean loves it. Fluttering her feathers, she shuffles closer, meticulous in her movements and tilts her head at Dean. Frowning, Dean stares at her over his book. They get stuck in a staring contest, which obviously an owl will win any day. Until Dean reaches out and tries to shoo her.

Glacial dynamic or not, Castiel will not let that happen. “Just a sec,” he says to Charlie, as he walks to the garden doors and leans against it - for actual support.

“Don’t upset her. We’re her parliament now.”

Dean looks caught out and snatches his hand back. “We’re...We’re her  _ what? _ ”

“Parliament,” Castiel says, smiling softly. “A group of owls is called…”

“... a parliament?” Dean looks back at her, settling into his seat again, glowering. “Politicians. Figures…”

“If you prefer, they’re sometimes also called a wisdom of owls.” He thinks he sees a smile tugging at Dean’s lips at that, which lifts his heart and makes him brave. “You’re… sure you’re not coming along?”

Though he expects the curt nod, it stings. Just like that, Dean’s focus shifts back to his book and Castiel retreats.  He hoped for a change of heart on his husband’s part, since he revealed the faded mark. His skin looks smooth as ever. Castiel’s nights remain restless, while he tosses and turns, drenched in sweat, and he’s sure Dean is suffering similarly if the bags under his eyes are anything to go by.

“Lemme show you where we’re going,” Charlie says.

“Are you sure we have time for this?”

“Oh, he can stuff it,” Charlie says airily. “This only takes a few minutes and I want you to see it.”

She unfolds a map on the living room table.

“What’s this?”

“There’s a Hunter gathering coming up. Annual thing. Teambuilding, getting drunk.” 

“You mentioned it. Lucifer’s getting an invite?”

“Mmyes. This year’s a bit different, because… Well, various reasons, but mainly cause they put yours truly in charge.”

“Okay,” he says. “That sounds like fun?” 

He isn’t sure. Charlie snorts and nods fervently, fingers drumming on the map.

“Hell, yes! I mean… Your family’s invited too, seeing, y’know, the recently formed bond. So I was told to find an impressive venue. Annnnnd, this is it!”

He looks closer. It’s a theme park map, insofar as he can gauge, and he picks out all too familiar names. Like old friends, they meet him intimately. Grimm. Alice in Wonderland. Nottingham. Sherwood. Robin. There are more obscure ones too. Phooka. Kludde. Witte Wieven.

The sigh he lets out is one of contentment and he looks closer, curiosity piqued. His hands slide over the map gingerly.

“A theme park,” he mutters. “A fairy tale theme park?”

Charlie smiles, leaning in. “Yep. Fairy tales, myths and legends.”

“How old is this?” he asks, pegging the style and date.

“Abandoned for a few years, but built over fifteen years ago. There’s some beautiful, handcrafted stuff still around! You’ll love it. Not where we’ll be, of course. Can’t have this lot sit on splintery benches.” 

“No, I guess not.”

“We’ll use Alice’s tea party for the picnic. And there," she points at a wide field lined by forests, "is where we'll hold the games.”

“Games?”

“Teambuilding. Our kind likes to show off at events like these.” When Castiel doesn’t react, she nudges him gently. “But there’s plenty to go explore. Y’know, if you two wanna, like, _escape_.”

Castiel gapes at her.

“What?” Charlie asks, wide-eyed.

“Is it that obvious?”

She gives him a very soft look, lips pursing slightly. "Well... Yeah."

“It’s gone,” he says quickly.

“I know that too.”

“I only told him that a few days ago.”

“I can be very persuasive."

Sighing, Castiel glances at the heavens. “Does everyone know?” He grimaces. “His mom?”

“Lord, no,” Charlie scoffs. “Dean’s not _that_ chatty.”

“No, I wouldn’t exactly describe Dean as ‘chatty’.”

“And he’s protective of you, Cas, even if he's angry.” 

His heart clenches painfully. Clearing his throat, he frowns at the map. “So I take it we’re expected to attend this gathering?”

“Duh,” she says. “No way outta that one.”

“With both the Winchesters and Novaks at the same venue, is everyone aware of what a dumb idea this is?”

“Dude, don’t worry, okay? I grew up with Sam and Dean. I know what their mom is like. And your mom, phew, not sure which one of them is the biggest bitch. But they like to prove they’re better, which means the grunts have to behave.”

A giddy laugh escapes him and he’s not sure what to say.

“Lost for words, huh?” Charlie grins. “That’s unusual.”

Instantly, he glares at Dean. “Filterless,” he says in accusation.

With an easy-going shrug, Charlie’s eyes flutter shut, before she snickers. “Man likes to talk about you, which tells you something...”

“Right,” Castiel hums. “I wish I could figure out how that works.”

She nods, fingers tapping the map. “You're making it sound more complicated than it is. I’m not kidding. Go for those walks.”

His penny drops and this time, he’s sure his mouth falls slack. “You… What? For us?”

A slap to his bicep lands with a surprising amount of force, knocking him slightly off balance. “We’re best friends now! Didn’t you know? And I pay attention. That and it’s just a really cool venue.”

“True.”

“Hey, uhm. Do you think Anna will be there?” Charlie folds up the map.

“Anna?” he echoes. “Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?”

Her voice shoots up cutely and Castiel smiles. Charlie's telltale sweetening scent steers his attention back to Dean. He wants to go kiss him goodbye.

“Just ‘cause.”


	40. Every Part Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he finally does go under, he is swallowed up by Hell. A rapid descent into a noisy cesspool of despair. He has no control over these chains. Hooks and barbs twist up his flesh, like fangs sunk into muscle, the pressure too much to ever release him. He screams without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's side of the coin for dreams.. with a little surprise.
> 
> Starting a very busy week. Brain not okay with that. Wish me luck. Hope y'all have a good start yourselves.  
> Love,  
> Mal

Dean never believed in Heaven. Even with the proof of its denizens walking among humanity, even having seen their fallen plumage used in spells, hell, being married to one of their former warriors if the books are to be believed, he never wanted to give full credit to the existence of God. It would explain a thing or two about Cas’ fearlessness in the face of danger. Or Dean’s anger. He bends and it sickens him to know he’s capable of having that effect on his husband. Anywhere else, he revels in it. Mostly. Outlet. Shame. Depends on the day and occasion.

Lately it’s been worse. And he hasn’t been sleeping much. Or well. Tossing and turning, he tries not to listen for Cas, but smells him anyway. It might have been easier, if he didn’t pick up on all that. If he could ignore the genuine regret and ocean-deep sadness and move on with life the way he always has. On auto-pilot, relying on just his brother and crew. They’re enough. He was a fool to think otherwise.

When he finally does go under, he is swallowed up by Hell. A rapid descent into a noisy cesspool of despair. He has no control over these chains. Hooks and barbs twist up his flesh, like fangs sunk into muscle, the pressure too much to ever release him. He screams without a sound. For Sam. Charlie. Benny. Jo. Victor. Bobby. Hell, even his dad. Maybe he’s here.

His lungs burn, body all but falling apart, if it wasn’t for the damned chains holding him together. There’s nothing he can do, but endure. The fire in his veins, as he struggles, and the endless depths, pulling his mind ever deeper. Overhead, the skies are an inky black mass of oily substance, vaguely familiar and tied to why he’s here.

There’s nowhere left to go, even if he could move from his confinement.

Dean closes his eyes, exchanging the view for a deeper darkness. His own. He wills his breathing to slow and his ears to go deaf for all but his own heartbeat.

Slow it all down.

Every lub is met with a dub at increasing intervals. When he stops breathing, the beating grows more intense, but slower still. His mind prickles at its edges, folding in on itself. He can keep this up for a long time, but if he persists, soon he’ll be out cold.

A force like thunder shocks through him and the chains, setting off pain once more. He howls, the noise echoing desperately, and opens his eyes.

Like a meteor making entry through the ozone, something comes barreling towards him at an alarming speed. His hackles come up, because he’s tied up. Helpless and whatever this thing is, it’s fast and coming straight at him. He snarls out a futile warning. The rumbling sound dies in his throat, when the meteor _speaks_ to him. Insofar as it can. The speech isn’t human. He’s never heard it before in his life, but somehow he understands its meaning.

He blinks through tears and blood, trying to _see_. Too fast. Blurry. Erratic almost. A glow distracts him and he looks towards it. Down at himself. Light breaks through out of his chest like sunlight through a thick layer of clouds. A humming picks up, the kind of song that might be played in a far future or a forgotten past, and it is met with a higher pitched one. Harmonious, they blend like ink in water, one dark as night, the other translucent and pure.

The communication makes the surroundings shimmer like air on a melting, hot day. Vibrations thrum towards him and for a second, he fears they’ll rip him apart. Until something else makes it through.

His name.

Uttered from beyond the stars in a foreign tongue, warm and loving at his ear. Except they aren’t four letters. They could be five. Or none at all.

He recognizes him.

“Angel,” he sighs.

A searing pain in his shoulder follows, but it’s brief, as he’s suspended in thin air for a few heartbeats, the chains broken by razorsharp, inkblack feathers.

To the sound of deep whooshing, he’s being flown up endlessly, wondering how he got that deep.

The world becomes lighter with every layer of Hell they leave behind. The last thing he sees when they crest through pink, fluffy clouds, shedding the oily muck, is a blinding sunset and terrifying blue eyes.

Dean wakes up with a start, a strangled sound wrenched from him. Panting, he reaches for Cas, only to find an empty spot and he remembers. Separate rooms, ever since… A fatigue sinks into his bones, because, well, frankly, it’s tiring and he suddenly doesn’t understand much of anything.

His shoulder hurts like a motherfucker. Groaning, he reaches for the throbbing feeling, which is in perfect sync with his galloping heart. His eyes almost roll out of his skull, when his fingers meet a rise in his skin, and he looks down, _sonovabitch!_ , whoever was in his dream, the bastard left a fucking mark.

Whoever… Who…?

An _angry_ , red handprint.

His skin tingles, when his nose forewarns him of Cas closing in. Quickly he throws on a henley. After a gentle knock, Cas appears at his door. Did he scream when he woke? Dean can’t recall, but Cas is looking very frazzled and sleepy. Grumpy even and a pang of guilt hits, knowing how much Cas needs his sleep. Cas’ voice sounds like morning-moody gravel.

“Want coffee?”

Dean lets out an explosive huff and blows a raspberry, a strange sense of tolerance loosening up the attitude of the past weeks. “You have no idea.”

Cas blinks the drowsiness away and looks him over a few times, as if he heard that wrong.

“I’ll, uhh, I need the bathroom, but I’ll be right there,” Dean says sheepishly, which seems to confuse Cas even more.

Cas possesses a scary kind of focus and it’s homing in on Dean like a heat-seeking rocket, unusual, even for Cas. As if he’s staring inside a pocket watch and figuring out what makes it tick. Then he tilts his head and nods once.

“Okay.”

And walks away.

Dean’s been an ass, clearly, for Cas to be so close-lipped.


	41. But I Can't Walk Away From You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is also a chivalrous assbutt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy Joel's Shameless for the title! I will likely go back and link all the songs at some point, but currently I'm just glad I'm posting in time and wrapping up the ~~smut~~ story.
> 
> Those with an eye for detail may have noticed the chapter count went up. Some of the scenes ahead turned out bigger than anticipated, so we will be with you a while longer.
> 
> I hope everyone is doing alright. If you wanna share or get a cuddle, drop a line. Or some love. Always welcome.  
> Hugs,  
> Mal

Castiel is unsure what changed, but ever since he made Dean coffee a few mornings ago, something shifted back in their favour. It almost makes him giddy to have the air brighten and the imagined weight lifted off his shoulders. Part of him wants to never again speak of what happened (Anna would skin him alive). But it would be so _nice_ and _easy_ to give into the tentative return to normalcy.

Dean doesn’t initiate any conversation, of course, besides the ones that make stuff feel like they did before. On the couch mainly. They both resort back to that strange, shy thing, but he’s okay with that. Anything besides the painful quiet and anger. He gets to feel Dean’s warmth next to him and hear his laugh now and then.

Well, mostly okay.

Perhaps made worse by the distance, he’s become more sensitive to Dean. And Dean… Dean is anything but immune to him, which provokes a giddy kind of feeling he keeps to himself like he’s hoarding treasure.

_He is also a chivalrous assbutt._

He’s more or less convinced they both want to at this point. There’s only so much a lack of scent can hide, especially when they both wake up hard. On the damn couch. Because they don’t go to bed. He’s simply not sure why it doesn’t happen. His Omega has a few lewd suggestions, none of which are very straightforward, but such is perhaps the nature of his secondary gender. Briefly his mind skips to the biological match that would allow him to forego all these shenanigans, but it’s neither here nor there. Not when it comes to Dean.

He remembers when he’d been different. What? You think he ended up skinny-dipping with a female Alpha rugby player in highschool if he hadn’t taken the initiative? Think again.

But Dean doesn’t take the lead, as much as Castiel wants him to. He wonders if Nulls are scent-deaf, but being a hunter, Dean can’t be. He’s not self-delusional to the point that his misstep is not still playing into things, but he’s not sure what he can say or do to make up for it, besides giving Dean the space to deal with that and letting life run its peaceful course. Until the right time comes along, which should be soon enough. Charlie's suggestion makes sense.

He has to get the words right.

*

Dean stopped being angry. More or less. As not angry as Dean Winchester gets to be. The handprint throbs all the time. Tiny pulses of reminder energy that are thoroughly distracting in what they release in their wake. His dreams are easier to remember lately and the high definition rendition of this one, as hazy as the specifics were, isn’t doing him any favours. He didn’t even know it was possible to bring back souvenirs from dreams.

Funny thing is he’s got an expert within his own home, but, hell, he can’t ask him. He doesn’t want to soil their newfound rhythm with that.

“Hey, Cas, I did the naughty with my dreaming buddy and now I’ve got this handprint on my shoulder that won’t stop throbbing. Any clue as to what’s happening?”

Besides it’s not like the cause of the weirdly intimate dream isn’t glaringly obvious. Cas’ scent hasn’t been helpful. Not in its sadness or appeal. Something changed, though he’s not sure when or what exactly. Maybe Cas forgot his meds in the dramatics of late and he’s coming up on a heat. Dean clicks his tongue at the thought, frowning when the saliva hits.

 _Yes_.

But no.

He rubs his forehead, trying to push the impending headache out. There’s another thing that’s been gnawing away at him and his stubborn resolve to keep his distance and freeze Cas out, because the alternative entails too many vulnerabilities to count. His fingertips itch to touch Cas, his whole body in near-physical pain, because he wants touch in return. He wants to feel Cas’ fingers track his arms, his ribs, his thighs. Have him count freckles with his tongue. He wants to kiss Cas until it’s all that’s real anymore. He wants to drown in his scent and slick, and breathe the same air, free of blockers and meds and anything else. He wants to touch and indulge and...

“Dean… Dean!”

He whines softly when the daydream pops out of existence. “Yeah! Yeah. What, man?” He refocuses on Sam, whose eyes are narrowed while he snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face.

“You’re useless like this on a stake-out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he grouches, stuffing some more chips in his mouth. “Got some shit on my mind. And we're backup."

“No kidding. So what are you gonna do about it, other than stare vacantly into space?”

“D’you think I can, like, uhh, _hide_ the handprint, while snuggling up with Cas on the couch?”

Sam rolls his eyes on a very amused scoff, giving Dean an incredulous once-over. “ _Snuggling_?”

“Are you gonna help or not?”

Grinning the way only little brothers can, Sam tries to school his features. He fails. “I mean, yeah, sure, I guess you could, but it doesn’t sound like Cas will just leave it at that. Shouldn’t you guys be sleeping in the same bed more?”

“I’m not taking advice from you. Not when it comes to lo… rela… dating, whatever, man!” he exclaims, when Sam’s face goes on a journey with every word not uttered.

“Marriage is the word you’re looking for. Ma-ree-ah…”

“How about I ask you what I’m smelling on you, huh?”

“Nothing to smell,” Sam shrugs, glowering. “Beta.”

“Uh-huh, maybe to anyone else, but not to me. I know you. And I’ve got an exceptionally good nose.” He taps the body part in question and winks.

Sam makes a face at him, taking a sip from his bottle. “And I know _you_ , so don’t change the subject. Cas is not gonna let it lie. If you’ve been an asshat for weeks, you’ll need to… sort it out.”

He doesn’t even fight Sam on the asshat remark. 

“He doesn’t _know_. Not about this,” he gestures at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I’m gonna tell him?”

“You should. You’re in a similar boat as he was.”

“Excuse me? I got assaulted in my dreams! It’s different from a friggin’ mating bite!”

“You can barely remember what happened,” Sam protests. “You said so yourself. Now you wanna claim assault? Sounded more like a rescue if you ask me. Besides, the bite faded. Maybe the handprint will too.”

Grumbling, he amends that point. “It’s still weird, alright? I’ve never had this shit happen to me. Not until I married an angel -”

“Fallen angel.”

“- _fallen_ angel, and all of a sudden I got nightmares and people sneaking up on me in my dreams, leaving fucking marks?”

“Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“After the past few weeks…” He huffs. “I’m gonna have to, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam grunts emphatically. “The sooner, the better from the sounds of it. I’ll see if I can get access to Naomi’s library.”

“What excuse?”

Sam gives that easy shrug, as if he knows he can bluff his way through. “That relic of theirs. I’ve been trying to figure out what it’s for. Or even what it is. My guess is it’s another tablet.”

Dean grimaces. “We know all the tablets’ whereabouts. There’s a fourth one?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Just curious why the angels couldn't get to it themselves. Supposedly God made them all, right?”

“Metatron,” Dean says.

“They should have been able to access it easily. They’re heavenly relics, but for some reason Naomi couldn't send her own boys.”

“Boys? Those goons…” Dean shrugs when Sam gives him a fierce stink eye. “They’re fallen. Lost their mojo. Maybe that’s why.”

“Too simple,” Sam says. “We need to figure it out either way.”

“That I agree with, ‘cause I can smell she’s up to something. Has mom talked to you about it?”

Sam shakes his head. “I tried talking to her, but she’s deadset on her path. Never thought I’d say this, but she’s making Dad look flexible.”

The mention of their father sets off a rollercoaster of emotions, most notably those related to how the family reassembled itself after his death, but all he can do is laugh. Because he realizes Sam is right with such unexpected clarity, it’s blinding. He hums noncommittally.

“I’ll talk to Cas after the Gathering.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Hey, look, they’re out.”

“Aww, man, I was hoping to have to bust down that door… Figures Jo’d ace this.”

"She looks like she played with a blender without the lid on."

"Exactly."

Jo grins at them and waves as she crosses the street.

"Hey, hey, no hands on Baby."

"These angel blades are a godsend!" she crows, obeying his order at the last second. "Novaks came through."

"A bunch of angel blades does not a deal make," Dean says, "But hey… glad to hear it."

"Why do you still look like you rolled through the meat grinder?" Sam asks.

"Because I had fun. Benny has that effect."

"That's true," Dean says meaningfully. "He okay?"

"Yeah, just making the last round and picking up any useful items they might have had. Not many, I guess."

"Alright, let's get you two cleaned up."


	42. Maybe We'll Find A Brand New Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope.
> 
> Perhaps everything looks brighter, because he’s walking hand in hand with Dean once more - even if it’s only for a moment. Dean’s hand is warm and dry in his. It’s strange to do so, since they haven’t talked, but reassuring all the same. Dean’s physical proximity makes up for a lot. The man’s like the sun to Castiel’s stars. Or planets. The planets revolve around the sun. Yes, that makes sense. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Lost Stars for this chapter and the next. Because they're trying, you know? They are.
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mal

Even though he’s never seen Charlie’s work before, Castiel knows she outdid herself, the second he sets foot within the venue. The arch they walk under is restored to its vintage glory, as is the furniture and some of the buildings, which immediately catch his eye. It’s like walking into a mixture of sepia-toned pictures and a vibrant, medieval festival. Scents of food being prepared billow up from colourful tents, scattered across the terrain. He notices Alice’s picnic area from afar, the forest beyond it, his insides swirling with anticipation.

He also spots the Novak pack. Mary is with them, of course, and the two of them look all too cosy - if such a word ever applies to conniving matriarchs. Both women seem immune to the amount of attention the family combo is garnering. Or they’re thriving on it. Castiel’s sensitive ass can tell there’s tension brewing, even while it’s under a layer of festive veneer. It strengthens his resolve to ask Dean if he’d ever consider leaving the family business. Lucifer is notably absent, until he finds him with Crowley near the archery range, surrounded by a surprising amount of pups. Gabriel is there too, pretending to know how to shoot a bow and arrow. It makes him smile, a gooey feeling erupting under his sternum.

Hope.

Perhaps everything looks brighter, because he’s walking hand in hand with Dean once more - even if it’s only for a moment. Dean’s hand is warm and dry in his. It’s strange to do so, since they haven’t talked, but reassuring all the same. Dean’s physical proximity makes up for a lot. The man’s like the sun to Castiel’s stars. Or planets. The planets revolve around the sun. Yes, that makes sense. 

He found the words. Set the intention of talking to Dean, a whole speech lined up, ever since his last dream. Castiel isn’t a hundred percent sure, because it would be an unusually fortunate turn of events, but he has to bring it up. Because if he’s right, everything changes. If he’s not, it’ll ruin their lives, so why is he even entertaining it…

His lingering grace - he has to start believing Dean about that. His gut. His ever so naive belief in everything that is providence, kismet and meant to be. He _has_ to be right. He’ll keep the secret happily. Loyally. He might even restore some of his lost faith, if…

“So what do you think, Castiel?” Charlie asks.

Zoning out. Of course he is. Oh, shit, so many people all of a sudden: Charlie, Jo, Ketch, Sam and Benny.

“Yes,” he squeaks at nothing in particular. “I’m okay.” Next to him, Dean laughs fondly, because he tends to blurt that out a lot without reason. Quickly Castiel catches himself and smiles at her. “It’s beautiful, Charlie. I’m glad we’re here.”

“Provided everyone behaves,” Dean says.

And they’re in agreement there. They don’t need to exchange words about that.

“Thanks,” Charlie smiles. “I gotta go back to work, but uhm, text me when Anna gets here?”

“She should be already,” he says. “She complained my mom cornered her for a bit."

“Cool. I mean, not that your mom did that, but... Cool."

“She also signed up for the chase,” Jo grins. “Girl’s gonna fit right in with us hunters. Wait until the games start. You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure,” Charlie says, ears turning pink. “Gotta run.”

“Hmm, yes,” Sam hums. “Nothing like watching a ton of shifters go on their instincts to prove a moot point.”

Dean cocks his head at his brother, concern evident. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Sam grumbles, but there’s something vulnerable in his eyes even Castiel catches. He mentally adds it to his to-talk-about list, when Dean’s jaw clenches and he too seems to set intentions.

Oblivious or uncaring, Ketch cranes his neck towards the field, where different games of talent are set up. They’re all very highlander, if Castiel has to judge. Wrestling, high and wide jumping, leap-frog (mainly for the pups, it seems, though chances are adults will try when sufficient alcohol has flowed), caber toss, weight throw, archery. “Who is taking part?”

“Can anyone?” Castiel asks.

“On this occasion, yes. Though some are more geared towards Alpha strength,” Ketch says. “Others towards agility and speed.” 

“Would you want to?” Jo asks.

“Uhm…” Castiel is curious, but he’d prefer not to commit to anything. He's on his own quest.

“I’d prefer to stick together,” Dean says, leaning his weight towards Castiel. “New dynamics and all. Big area.”

“Overprotective,” Benny coughs into his hand.

Ketch crowds a bit closer towards the both of them, eyes on Dean. “Why don’t you join the chase too then?”

Someone lets out a sharp hiss and Jo punches Ketch in the shoulder. 

“What?” Ketch winces.

“Only Alphas for that one, dude.”

“Oh, right,” he says, faux-densely. “Right. Of course. My bad.”

He meets Castiel’s eyes pointedly, who holds his gaze without flinching, as he squeezes down on Dean’s hand. His mind’s working rapidly, lining up all those little moments he’s experienced with these people, and his heart chills under the Brit’s scrutiny. He doesn’t like the man right now. At all.

“Jeez, you’d think you’d remember after all these years,” Jo grunts. “Let’s go get you enrolled, asshole. Get rid of some of that energy.”

Ketch makes a strange face at Dean, his gaze then tracking to Castiel, before he casually strolls after Jo.

“It’s the hunter vibe,” Benny winks. “Easy to mistake for Alpha.”

“Are you?” Castiel asks before he can stop himself.

For a second, Dean looks at him - a question in his eyes, but then it registers he was asking Benny. Castiel has so far ignored the ease with which Benny and Dean move around each other. But since the distance between them grew and he smells Benny on Dean more often than not when Dean comes home, it’s been more challenging.

Benny nods, slapping a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Second in command to our dear Dean here.”

Dean moves with it gracefully, smooth like water, and leans into Benny. It’s instinct, he supposes, the familiarity of working so closely together and having to rely on each other in dangerous situations. Trust, he realizes sourly. A trust Castiel and Dean don’t share. He doesn’t like it. Something short-circuits in his brain, sparks flying. Benny’s grin goes wide, because clearly he’s also letting it show. He nudges Dean and juts his chin out, at which Dean swallows hard and his face does something funny.

“Pretty eyes, Omega,” Benny smirks. “No need to worry though.”

He averts his gaze, blinking, then pointedly seeks Benny out again. “I’m not worried.”

“Even if he was mine first,” Benny shrugs. “He married you, didn’t he?”

“You sound like Anna. He _did_ marry me,” Castiel says, letting a generous amount of sass through. “I smell nicer.”

Benny barks a laugh, eyes twinkling, while he looks at Dean and then back at Castiel. “You’ve got a lovely bite to you. Just what Dean needs.”

Dean rolls his eyes, exasperation oozing off him. “Will you two cut it out? You’re killing me.”

A pout forms against Castiel’s will and his body angles towards Dean possessively. With no small amount of relief, he sees Dean slip out from under Benny’s grasp, but he’s still annoyed all the same.

“You’re both _pretty_ , alright?” Dean adds grumpily.

The look he gives Castiel sends his heart pinballing in his chest. It’s softer than before and he craves this intimacy so much, it’s painful. So he blurts out his carefully crafted request now. 

“Let’s go for a walk while the neanderthals have their fun?”

‘Neanderthals’ was not in the final draft.

“Can I join?” Benny asks, then laughs when Castiel glares.

And it clicks.

“You… You’re teasing.” He chuffs a little at the wink Benny sends him, the welcoming intent behind it, despite what’s been happening.

“Lovely to see you again, Castiel, as ever,” Benny smirks. “Be good to each other now, you hear?”

Dean hesitates, eyes on the games and the forest. “ _Would_ you like to join in?” Dean asks.

“I thought you said Alphas only.”

“The chase? I meant the games,” Dean stutters and Castiel follows suit, because of course that’s where his mind went. “That… Yes. But Alphas gotta hunt something. And I don’t want to stop you…”

Castiel's cheeks flush at the belated realization. He walked right into that one. “No. No. I have no need to be chased except by…”

 _You_.

It’s the truth as well, for the first time in a while.

Dean’s gaze is laden, as if he’s seeing right through Castiel, and for a split second, he almost wishes he would. To have this out in the open. How in the hell is he going to live a whole life with this man, if they both keep secrets? Then he remembers the faded bite mark and the dream, and closes his eyes briefly, rubbing at his forehead.

“Let’s go for that walk? This.. This is all getting a bit much.”

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and bows his head, as if they’re in the middle ages. Or in a story. “Of course.”

*

Dean tries to keep himself from smiling, but it’s proving difficult. Cas won’t shut up, while he’s got his nose in that map Charlie provided them with. Dean herds him, so he doesn’t run into anything or anyone. His prattle is near endless and it’s comfortably reassuring, while they wander past the games towards Alice’s picnic area. The scent of the food stalls makes him want to sit down on one of the colourful blankets with Cas later. Soak up the sunlight. Have Cas unwind, because he can tell how tightly wound he is and Dean’s partially responsible for it. The rest is this event. He’s missed hanging out. He’s also ignoring Cas’ scent with gusto, because he’s developing an addiction.

“The map says it’s this way, Dean.”

“Let me guess. You don’t read maps wrong?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t, but if you like, we can ask for directions.”

Dean scoffs softly. “I don’t think anyone else is interested in the old parts of this park.”

“But I am.”

“I know.”

“So…?”

“Alright, I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”

“Dean-o!”

They both halt and turn towards the sound. It’s Gabriel. He gestures at them, but Castiel looks like he might burst if they don’t get moving into the forest soon. 

“What is it now?” he huffs under his breath.

“You go,” Dean says, “I’ll catch up.”

Gabriel clasps his hand tightly, when they meet. “Dean-o, hate to do this to you, but small work-related question before you wander off with my baby brother. Well, more to sate my curiosity than anyone else’s…”

His eyes flick to Cas for a moment. Trained to be on the lookout, Dean senses Gabriel’s deflecting something.

“Hi, Shorter.” Gabe gives Cas a quick smile. Cas looks at Dean, visibly losing patience, and he can’t blame him. Perhaps they can talk sooner, if they can just leave all this behind. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Cas, I’m sure.”

A second ago, he’d have preferred to ignore Gabe. Now he means it. Wanting to protect Cas, while at the same time planning to open up to him is an all kinds of fucked up combination and various instincts are at war. But _until_ he does, he’ll keep abiding by the strongest one. For whatever reason, Cas doesn’t need to hear this.

The kiss to his temple does it. With a soft purr, Cas gives him a headbump and goes, and yeah, Dean’s a sucker. And an idiot. He needs to sort this. Come clean _somehow_ , though that might take some planning. To get it right. Make sure Cas can’t immediately run and turn him in. Unfair, he thinks, when he meets those emphatic blue eyes and they share a smile. Maybe he should propose to Cas for real, instead of the arrangement their parents worked out. Wrap an unsavory truth in a treat, so to speak. It works on dogs. He sighs, frowning at his own deflection, even when there’s no one around to hear it.

“I promise I’ll be right with you.”

If only.

“What’s up, Gabe?”

Gabriel looks back at the road leading into the forest, waiting it out so Cas is well and truly out of sight and earshot, and then a bit longer, until annoyance kicks in on Dean’s end. “Is it truly urgent?”

“I’m trying to pick my words.”

“That’d be a first.”

“Okay, fine, tough guy. That retrieval mission mom sent you and Sam on a while back? You know, the one you weren’t very enthusiastic about, except to get away from Cassie.”

His attention shifts from pining for Cas to Gabe and he grinds his teeth. “Yeah?”

Gabe gives a smug wink at having drawn him out so easily. “What was the relic?”

“You mean you don’t know either?”

Sue him for playing dumb. It’s gotten him out of more binds and tickets than he cares to remember.

“Cute,” Gabe says, “You do realize that _both_ of us pretending not to know won’t get us very far?”

“You started it. And this time around, I wanna go spend time with Cas, so spill.”

“God, you hunters are a prickly bunch when you get your knickers in a twist.” Dean shifts his weight, eyebrows going up in a mute question, and Gabe lifts his hands. “Tablet, right?”

“Right.”

Shoulders slumping, Gabe sighs, gaze tracking to the crowd and colourful tents, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. “I was afraid of that.”

“What’s it for?”

“My guess?” He pauses. For dramatic effect, Dean’s sure of that. Cas’ trickster brother has a knack for drama. “Mom’s messing with stuff she shouldn’t. Like trying to restore the balance.”

“Sooooo what does that mean? Returning to heaven? I might actually put up a fight over that now. For some of you.”

“Aww, aren’t you all sugar and spice,” Gabe grins. “Reopening Heaven. Restoring our powers. Who knows? Whatever she’s up to will have a price.”

“Doesn’t it always?” Dean sighs. “Why are you telling me?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Okay,” Dean hesitates, frowning. “Then why can’t Cas know?”

“You have to ask? All he wants is out of that life. He hates every second of you working for mom. I don’t want him to worry…”

“On that at least we agree.”

“Isn’t it odd that she sent you to do our job for us? To me, that means something wasn’t right. Angelic obstacles.”

“We figured as much. Who sets those up?”

“ _Typically_ other angels.”

Dean regards him heavily and seeks out the Novak pack members. Their affiliates and contacts, spread out across the Gathering. “Sucks to be an angel then, doesn’t it?”

“Fallen angels, which makes us more vulnerable.”

“I wouldn’t call your lot vulnerable, but fair estimate either way. I can point you to plenty of people here who are fighting the urge to put you all down.”

Gabe rolls his eyes, tilting his hips. “You’re not cute like this.”

Dean grins wide, though an uneasy feeling lands low in his gut. “Sugar and spice?”

“And you better be joking. I handed Cassie over to you, trusting you wouldn’t be a dick.”

“I…” He swallows, pursing his lips and trying really hard to keep his face in check. “I only want what’s best for him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got a bit of a family curse on him. Boy can’t help who he’s related to.”

Shaking his head, Dean puts his hands at his sides. He never expected Cas to be described as cursed. Sounds more like Winchester fare. “I’d rather have him, cursed or not,” he finds himself saying out loud. “And you’re not too miserable yourself.”

“Okay,” Gabe nods, not taking the bait, “Okay, that’s good. Keep that in mind, if mom decides to upend the world as we know it, alright?”

He frowns. “What does Cas have to do with opening the gates of Heaven?”

“I don’t know. Just… Call it my trickster sixth sense. Something’s brewing and angels can be massive, huge dicks, especially to their own kind.”

Dean pegs the frustration and pain between the words and nods. He claps a hand to Gabe’s shoulder and squeezes. “Yeah, okay… I will, man. In that vein, I should probably catch up to him before he gets lost.”

Gabriel smiles and glances over his shoulder. “Good luck with that, but y’know, maybe you can christen an abandoned ride or two while you’re here. Ride being the operative word.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Dean huffs.

He turns on his heels and sniffs the air, then scrunches up his nose at how frail Cas’ scent already got. Nothing he can’t track though.


	43. Take My Hand, Let's See Where We End Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quietly, he holds a lazy pace. Frau Holle’s house looks beautiful and more rustic, with the bright blue and white paint peeling and the wood having overgrown under the elements. The lady in the window on the top floor is shaking the pillow, feathers falling to the girl below. In the background he sees the famous well and halts, when he spots two people sitting on the bench at the side of the path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : kickoff to more angst, but it's our narrative climax, so y'know, we're getting there. Chase!
> 
> I'm actually working on the very last bits. So strange, because for a while, this beast of a story looked insurmountable, but here we are. I'm so glad to share it with you though <3 hope you're doing well.
> 
> Much love,  
> Mal

Castiel hurries off the main path as soon as he’s out of sight. He walks, until the forest swallows him up and isolates him from the din. He finds a narrow, meandering path, which according to the map will take him down a folklore walk. Through the shrubs, he spots a pale wooden house and slows his pace down, a childish kind of elation waking up under his sternum. It’s been a while.

Goats. Through the window, he spots little goats, some piled up on each other’s shoulders. One is on the floor, its tail pointing up as it peeks under it. They’re wearing clothes. When he rounds the corner, he finds a huge wolf on its hind legs outside the front door. He looks creepy and, oddly, realistic enough, reminding him of the werewolf in how _human_ he appears, despite the crossdressing to pretend he’s the little goats’ mother.

Inhaling the forest air, a tension in his neck and back eases up. With a smile, he passes by the informational plaque that says ‘Grimm’s _The Wolf and the Seven Young Goats_ ’ at the top, but he knew that.

Up ahead is more greenery and he’s grateful for the distance between the fairytale scenes. When he gets to a little crossroads, he checks the map. Ahead is _Little Red Riding Hood_. _Frau Holle_ is to the left, which he wants to see. If he follows that path, he can loop around past _The White Snake_ and _The Seven Ravens_ , until he gets to Little Red.

Quietly, he holds a lazy pace. Frau Holle’s house looks beautiful and more rustic, with the bright blue and white paint peeling and the wood having overgrown under the elements. The lady in the window on the top floor is shaking the pillow, feathers falling to the girl below. In the background he sees the famous well and halts, when he spots two people sitting on the bench at the side of the path.

Two familiar people.

Anna and Charlie.

And, whoa, Anna’s got hands full of Charlie. He averts his eyes, when skin flashes, and stifles a giggle fit.

Okay, he thinks, okay, okay. Then tilts his head, frowning through an amused smile. _Working, my ass._

He doesn’t want to disturb them by going past. Back or around? Anna might pick up his scent either way, since she’s so familiar with it, but she’ll ignore him. He thinks. Quickly, he slips to the side of Frau Holle’s house, deciding to go around and make his way to The Seven Ravens. The walk turns out longer than he thought, but then those kinds of maps are never accurate once you stray. He smiles at the fairytale theme in that. Don't stray off the path or else... Hopefully he doesn’t run into any wolves. Or he does and it all works out, because they understand each other.

Scoffing softly, he smiles, gaze tracking to the undergrowth, twigs breaking and leaves crunching under his shoes. Every step releases fragrances to the air. The wind is blowing through the leaves and there are birds communicating with each other. He pricks his ears, trying to gauge intent. There was a time, long ago, when he could talk to animals. He allows his mind space to wander, a supernova expanding.

Chances are he lost track of where he was going.

He must have, because _The Seven Ravens_ doesn’t appear through the trees. Instead he hits an old, decrepit remnant of a scene. Its structure is gone, except for a lone figure in the middle with a long-nosed, almost horse-like face, and decaying braids running down its back. He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking, while he circles it. The clothes are all but gone, revealing a wiry structure underneath. One of its hands is huge with long claws, fit to disembowel. The other holds a heavy chain, dragging it along. A vague memory rankles his head. Phooka? Celtic folklore. A most unpleasant creature, if he recalls correctly. Perhaps this ride was abandoned, because it isn’t exactly cute material for kids. 

A rumbling sound comes rolling in. He jolts out of his reverie, his heart jumping with the heaviness of his own imagination. Frowning he tries to see past the foliage to the skies. Thunder? Predictions for the day were good. His nose twitches and he sneezes a few times. When he next inhales, the scents hit him like a brick wall, as if they closed in at the snap of a finger. They probably did. He whines.

Alphas. A _lot_ of Alphas.

The noise grows and now he can make out the sound of many people running through the forest. Stealthier than you’d expect for such a group, because he knows what he stumbled upon. The chase.

This is what he gets for living in the city his whole life. Nervous, he picks up a light jog, careening away from the hustle and bustle.

Too late.

A bunch of them come bursting through. At least fifteen of them at first glance, but there is more movement beyond this group. He holds his breath against the onslaught of riled up pheromones and reflexively freezes. Some of them do the same, but the majority keeps running, chasing down a few Omegas. The ones who actually signed up for this. He doesn’t recognize anyone, absurdly remembering Anna was supposed to be in this. If she had been, this wouldn’t be as problematic. He’s sweating and another, louder sound escapes him. Something between a howl and a whimper, that screams _Omega_ , and it drags their attention to him.

He was wrong. He knows one of them.

Ketch.

Not a word is exchanged, but four Alphas abruptly change course, taking Ketch’s lead, when he runs towards Castiel, eyes blood red. For a strange moment, his senses pick up on the strength of them. Their muscles, their speed, the way they move like a pack and still try to cut each other off to get to their prey first. He lifts his hands, shaking his head, because _no_ , he’s not one of them. To no avail. Then his survival instinct flares up, hot and bright through his veins. He turns on his heels and bolts, heart racing.

_Dean_ , his brain provides. That is _all_ it provides.

He runs like he’s never run in his life before, putting his full trust in his olfactory senses to lead him to the safety of his husband.


	44. Come Away With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to snort derisively, but the sound he makes comes closer to a sad whine. He’s always worried, truth be told. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
> 
> “Uhm… Why wouldn’t he be?” Anna asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Chasing, unsolicited touch, secrets revealed. (Minor: small timejump back. Mere minutes. You'll see.)
> 
> Norah Jones' Come Away With Me for the title. Because that's all these two want and need at this point. But... alas.
> 
> Also, I'm late posting, because of bad sleep and just -_- brain. My apologies. I do hope you're well.  
> Much love,  
> Mal

Dean figures out Cas, fittingly enough, strayed from the path. Shaking his head, he sighs, as he drops his head back for a moment. He wonders if it’s Cas’ Omega, subconsciously trying to get Dean to play. Though he did say he’d catch up and, _y’know_ , it might be wishful thinking on his own behalf. Yeah, this will all be so much easier once he tells him. It would be hella ironic if he manages to share his true gender with Cas and then still keep him out of the family business. He has an inkling how Cas would feel about the latter. Dismissing the circles he’s about to start running in his head, he relaxes and inhales deeply. Like being hit in the face with ice cold water, his face tingles and his mind expands insanely. An outward awareness trickling down his spine, like wind through a wolf's fur.

The damp, rich forest soil. The wind carrying many a scent. He picks out a few animals, furry and feathery alike. Slivers of shifters, but he ignores those in favour of nature and narrowing his focus to Cas. He’s got a reason to now. Flowers hit next, because he’s become sensitive to those. Abruptly his mind brings on the gardenia’s fragrance from home. They don’t grow here. He knows that, yet he still thinks he smells them and if that isn’t Pavlov at work, he doesn’t know what is. Because it’s a core element of Cas’ scent. He’s curious if Cas loves them so much, because they’re a part of him. It reminds of their night under the stars. He allows himself to surrender to sniffing out every little detail of Cas’ scent.

He never pegged himself to be so into flowers, but here they are.

Wandering, he follows his nose past a dilapidated little house with a wolf and a bunch of goats. He picks up his pace, when he gets stuck amidst the greenery, eager to get to the next one. Something bright blue catches his eye and he intends to follow the path, but his feet want to veer off course, when Cas’ scent goes elsewhere. Again.

Ahead, he spots two people. He grins. “Charles! You call that working?!”

Charlie lifts her hand to flip him off, but they do come up for air. Anna glances over her shoulder, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Dean huffs in amusement as he makes his way over. “You two seen Cas or were you too busy?”

Charlie shakes her head, looking very flushed and smelling all kinds of content. “The way you’re smelling, you’re gonna throw a few Alphas off their track in the chase.”

“I urge them to try,” Anna says, “And, yes, Cas was here a while ago.”

“He was?” Charlie asks.

“You didn’t smell him?”

“All I smell is you, darlin’, and it is heaven.”

“Thank you,” Anna beams. “Right back at you.”

“Hey, focus,” he says, slapping one hand in the palm of his other hand. “I’m trying to locate my husband. He has a tendency to wander and get lost.”

“He does. I think he went around us,” Anna says.

“Alright,” Dean sighs, frowning. “I’ll… go find him.”

“Are you worried?” Charlie asks, rising to adjust her clothes.

He wants to snort derisively, but the sound he makes comes closer to a sad whine. He’s always worried, truth be told. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Uhm… Why wouldn’t he be?” Anna asks.

Which is when he realizes that one) Anna doesn’t know and b) his nose is telling him something is terribly, terribly wrong. A fragile sliver of Cas invades him. Terror. Mixed in are a bunch of other scents, nearly all of them Alpha.

Dean takes off running like a bat out of hell. The girls do the same, calling after him, but he doesn’t hear the words. He’s faster than most on a good day with sloppy motivation. All of his senses are zoning in on one thing and one thing only: Cas. Fear courses through him, as he suddenly remembers a dream, which immediately slips out of reach again, because _this_ is real.

So much more real and his heart threatens to burst out of his chest in despair. He shoves it aside in favour of anger and strength and an ineffable emotion he can’t name, but it’s the driving force behind everything he’s done for his loved ones his whole life. A deadly kind of focus finally comes over him, calming his mind to the task at hand, as he runs, the forest a blur around him. His Alpha rises to the occasion, eager and echoing his own fears. Dean has an iron grip on him.

_Find mate. Protect. Promised._

At some point, the chase splits up into a main group and a smaller one. He changes course, pushing himself. His Alpha growls, fury spurring him on when a familiar scent joins the din. 

Ketch. 

Ketch is after Cas with some goons.

He presses forward, muscles burning, breath fast and hard, and the common sense part of him flies out the window. He lets it go freely. He’s closing in on the Gathering. Both colour and scent tells him this, and he barges out of the forest right next to Alice’s picnic area.

His brain nearly implodes when he spots Cas.

Bent over the table, both Zachariah and Ketch with their hands on him. Cas lets out a heart-wrenching whine that all but pulls his soul from his body.

“Dean!” Charlie yells breathily. He can hear the warning, the plea to hold back.

But he’s off.

He doesn’t hesitate one second, as he closes the distance. Ketch turns towards him, snarling. The next heartbeat, Ketch’s face scrunches up when Dean’s elbow lands, first on his nose, then down and upwards into his chin, sending Ketch flying backwards. Zachariah barely has time to let go of Cas, before Dean grabs him and bodily hauls him away, claws coming out and ripping through fabric.

Cas is quick on his feet and Dean takes stock of his body language, as easy as breathing. He smells terrified and as furious as Dean feels, but he seems unharmed. His eyes are wide, when they look at Dean, and that’s when he realizes his world is coated red. Dean turns his back towards Cas, planting himself like a shield, and faces his assailants. The roar he lets out is enough to shake buildings to their very foundations, but each of the Alphas backs off.

*

Castiel almost collides with a woman, who has her hands full of food, and barely avoids tripping over people on their picnic blanket. Wheeling around on his own axis to sidestep a few tables, he keeps running, bringing chaos in his wake. The first familiar face he sees is Zachariah’s.

“ _Castiel_. What on earth is happening?” his uncle hisses.

Castiel stumbles towards him, breath too ragged, throat too dry to talk, but the next second, he’s yanked back by his collar. He struggles, the fabric straining and threatening to rip. A hand closes over his throat and this time he whines desperately, when Ketch’s scent overwhelms him and he squeezes his eyes shut, afraid of what might happen next. He throws his strength into it, earning angry rumbling for his efforts, which spur him on further.

“Enough!” Zachariah growls.

The pressure on him, the claws sinking into his neck, barely let up, so he fights harder, until he’s free. Quickly he gets distance between himself and Ketch, glancing over to find Ketch’s red eyes caught on him. Some of the other Alphas kept running, creating havoc among the attendants. The moment is brittle and unlikely to evolve in his favour. He needs to find Dean.

Suddenly, someone grips him by the hair. “You’re always such a troublemaker!” Zachariah snaps. “This wouldn’t happen if you’d been mated!”

He underestimated how strong his uncle is beneath all that soft weight and, even while he fights it, he’s slowly but surely bent forward, until his face is pressed to the table. A wicked snarl from his left side brings Ketch closer, twisting Castiel’s arm to his back.

“You’re right about that, old man.”

“Back off,” Zachariah says, “He is one of ours.”

Ketch sneers softly, voice unpleasantly low and dangerous, not in the least impressed by Zachariah. “You’ve got that wrong. Said it yourself. Married, but unmated and technically _ours_.”

It goes entirely quiet above him, Castiel's senses reaching out. He tries to catch someone's eye, anyone at this point, pleading for help. No one moves.

"If he's such a troublemaker," Ketch says, "Don't you want me to take him off your hands?"

"His mother doesn't like her plans getting meddled with."

Castiel growls, loud and fearful, laced with a pure fury, because he is no one’s. Or Dean’s. But in truth, no one’s. Unmated, unclaimed, this is the position his marriage has put him in. Someone’s thigh makes warm, terrifying contact with his, their weight leaning in, and he can’t tell if it’s Zachariah or Ketch, but either option is too much. “Get off me!”

He kicks and fights, hard enough to break free, but only for a moment. Both men wrestle him down in the vulnerable position he is already in. He catches sight of them before he goes cheek first into the wood. Both his uncle’s, his _uncle’s_ , and Ketch’s eyes glow red and they have their hands on him, claws out. Dimly, he’s aware of his mother’s voice somewhere? Or her scent. Either she’s not close enough to intervene or she’s choosing not to. At this point, he wouldn’t put anything past anyone.

Desperately, he lets out a loud whine that’s meant for one person only.

His nose twitches. Burning. He smells the burning first and his heart leaps with it. Like a forest fire approaching at alarming speed, it closes in. Next he hears the sound of a fist colliding with muscle. Or a face. Bone. Suddenly he’s free. When his horizon tilts back to normal, Castiel scrambles upright and turns around. His throat constricts, when he makes eye contact with Dean. He’s done this so many times before. Wordless. In close quarters. Across distances. In the water. Out walking. Kitchen. Garden. Restaurant. On Baby. In Baby. At college. At home.

But they were never red.

Except they were. At least twice.

He inhales through his mouth, the burning clinging to his tongue and throat, and wants to laugh. An outrageous, crazy kind of laughter, brought on by the strangest blend of incredulity and relief, while he looks at _his husband_ \- all of him - for the first time. In his terrifying, furious Alpha glory. The sound Dean makes is rolling thunder. Another image, darker and borne of another plane of existence, filters through this reality. Blackened chains surrounding the brightest light. Power. So much of it, he tastes it when he breathes in.

His world rearranges itself with Dean as his new sun. Omega instincts kick in right alongside an overwhelming urge that reminds him of what his grace used to do. 

_Touch. Protect. Heal._

_Love._

Castiel watches Dean turn away from him. The roar Dean lets out sends each and every one of the others reeling backwards. Zachariah looks furious even as he stumbles. Ketch meets Dean with bare teeth, but backs down, and none of the others even try to put up a fight. Castiel is overwhelmed with an intense sense of pride.

He follows after Dean with purpose, knowing he’s safer now than he’s been. Gently, he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. If he still had his wings, he’d fold them around his husband.


	45. Man in the Wilderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you ever shut up?”
> 
> Dean shoots the man a taunting grin. “Why? You like ‘em quiet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : separation.
> 
> I feel I ought to apologize, but I know what else is coming, so... I won't. Not yet. Bear in mind, this ends happy. And hey, at least some things are out in the open for them to deal with. Soon.
> 
> Going through a So Tired phase.  
> Much, much love. You are loved and I hope you are also cared for 💛  
> Mal

Dean is so warm under his touch, he remembers what it was like flying towards the sun. Her warm rays and brightness seem so fitting for Dean, even while he is in full Alpha mode. Castiel was right. For all the good it’ll do either of them, he was right. He hadn’t imagined it, but Dean hid from him all the same. Not one cell in his body believes that move was solely down to Dean and he wants to revisit all those little and huge moments that will make more sense. He wants to ask so many questions.

There’s no time.

Dean glances at him over his shoulder, a short-lived connection, before he ducks his head. The brief vulnerability he spots is quickly hidden behind an Alpha mask of restrained fury. Dean is so impressively in control of himself, Castiel’s heart wrenches on his behalf, when he realizes how difficult it must have been.

His mother steps up, pale blue eyes suspiciously calm. She lifts her hand to bring Zachariah to heel. Security has joined the commotion to get people back in line. Castiel pulls at Dean, when she cocks her head at them, eyes narrowed, and he can hear the gears in her head turning.

Dean resists him, reaching around to touch Castiel, and he leans closer, until his chest is pressed to Dean’s back. He releases a small sound to the back of Dean’s neck, earning a pained look. “Dean,” he whispers.

Eyes still lined red, Dean speaks in a low whisper. “Stay behind me.”

He glowers, the sting of angry tears tangible, and holds onto Dean tighter. “You stay close.”

It’s a desperate clutching on, like two people adrift in an ocean, who threaten to drown each other. Except in this case, he’s sure they’d survive if they weren’t caught in the drift of their families. 

Mary joins and her fury is palpable, when she sees what has been revealed. The blood drains from Castiel's face one heartbeat to the next. There is no good outcome to this, he thinks, and all he wants to do is run with Dean. Remove themselves far from these families. Charlie and Anna are being held back by both security and crucial members on either side. The hunter crew is there too. Benny’s unreadable, but Castiel does finally peg why Dean calls him Fangs. Lucifer is preventing Sam from stepping up, a surprisingly gentleness to how he presses his hand to Sam's chest. Nevertheless the dynamic feels like it’s on the edge of a knife.

If they so much as breathe wrong, this will escalate into carnage.

Dean grins at him. A quick flash of something feral, hiding the more vulnerable parts underneath. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m Batman.”

A nervous chuckle escapes him, because he instantly remembers that dream, unsure if Dean realizes this connection. Perhaps it’s subconscious. Then Dean’s face falls, when Castiel clearly fails to control his own, and the attempt at humorous bluster falls flat.

“Cas... I know this isn’t what you were promised.”

Stunned, Castiel gapes at him, a deep unease swirling. He’s trying to pick out Dean’s scent, zoning in on the burning and everything layered beneath, but he fails to identify the subtleties and the intentions behind them.

After another long look, which Castiel is scrabbling to interpret, Dean abruptly breaks away from him. With his arms up, he goes to his knees. “I yield. Don’t hurt Cas. He had no idea.”

“No,” Naomi snarls, “But your family did and they still…”

Cutting herself off, she purses her lips, as if she’s aware just how on display they are. Castiel experiences a surge of _schadenfreude_ at his mother’s plans being derailed, while she thought she was working her own angle successfully. At her youngest now being married to an Alpha. Maybe he’s even smiling about it. Which never ends well. Her eyes flash angrily at whatever she sees in his face. For all he knows, it's utter despair.

With a sharp snap of her fingers, she gestures her goons into action, a meaningful nod to Lucifer. The eldest Novak grabs his phone, undoubtedly calling in reinforcements or the kind of people who are going to make the Winchesters’ lives - and his own - a lot more difficult. Sam is talking to him, but Castiel can't hear it, and Lucifer pulls away from the youngest Winchester.

Naomi faces Mary. Without looking at him, she juts out her chin. Lucifer steps up next to her. “Done?"

“Dean Winchester, you are placed under arrest for falsifying your secondary gender and marriage under false pretenses.”

There’s an upsurge of energy. Sam breaks past Lucifer, shouting protest, and Castiel joins in, whispering for Dean to _please don’t_. Please don’t. It’s all he can think. Don’t bend the knee. Fight. He understands they’re surrounded. He understands they're in danger.

“We are taking Castiel back home,” Naomi says, hissing through her teeth at Mary. “I suggest you come up with a good offer to make amends for this insult.”

Mary doesn’t say a word, staring at Naomi coldly. Her eyes briefly flick to Dean, who keeps his eyes down. Castiel inches closer to him, wanting to touch, but is stopped by Zachariah. Snarling through his anger, he pushes his uncle aside and drops to his knees next to Dean, whispering plaintively. Apple-green eyes meet his. He wants to say it’s only sadness, but there’s another shadow playing in them. A darker sentiment. Sniffing gently, he leans in, but Dean shakes his head and pulls away, with a warning rumble. 

“Don’t, Cas.”

“But…”

Dean shakes his head again and he figures it out. Self-loathing. “Dean,” he whispers, “Please don't give up. You deserve better…”

Frowning, Dean drops his gaze, that infuriating, stubborn set to his jaw, and, his heart shattering, Castiel _feels_ Dean detach from him. The light goes out of his eyes. As if he’s giving up, which is so counterintuitive to how he knows his husband, Castiel wants to throttle him to the ground and shake his soul back to life. There has to be more going on. A plan, a bluff, anything.

“Dean,” he says, when Lucifer steps closer to pull Castiel to his feet.

He claws at Lucifer’s arm, but he’s too strong. He’s always been stronger than Castiel and Gabe combined. Everything is slipping through his fingers. Minutes. It was only minutes of time that led them here. _Gabe_ , he thinks frantically, and searches for him. Finds him flanked by Crowley and Raphaela, equally helpless. His eyes look tremendously sad, but there’s calculation there too. He shakes his head at Castiel imperceptibly.

A plan, Castiel scrambles to hold his mind together. A plan.

Dean’s giving in to buy them time? To prevent worse from happening, but he doesn’t understand what could be worse than Dean getting arrested and Castiel having to go back to his family. The thought of living in the same house as his mother again makes his skin crawl. The thought of Dean locked up or worse... He whines and growls at Lucifer, whose face is a cold blank.

Naomi stands in front of him, the strength of her dominance invading him. “I suggest you do not cause any more commotion than you already have.”

The Novak matriarch walks away, her family and entourage in tow. Absurdly his thoughts turn to Pandora.

“Charlie,” he calls out. “Charlie! Pandora…”

Confused, Charlie’s voice breaks. “I… Yes! I’ll… I’ll take care of her, Castiel.”

Without further ado, he’s whisked away, surrounded by the Novaks once more. From the car, he watches Lucifer take Dean into a van. An unmarked, black van.

“Where are they taking him?” No answer. Castiel wheels around in his seat. “Mother!”

“Quiet,” she snaps. “Not another word out of you or I’ll ensure Omegas can be muzzled by law.”

*

Dean holds himself upright and resists the urge to rub at his wrists. Those manacles were put on way too tight, but they were nothing compared to the muzzle he had to endure. He bares his teeth and works his jaw, when it’s taken off.

“Who do you take me for? Lecter?”

The officer who removes it, who is by no means standard police department, winces minimally and, sure, Dean’s Alpha appreciates that. He’s in such deep shit, there’s nothing remotely funny about any of it. He’ll take his small, petty victories where he can, even if it means letting people believe he’s less in control than he is.

“Novak payroll?” he asks casually.

“The prisoner will keep his silence.”

Scoffing, he bares his teeth. “The prisoner will do no such thing, seeing as you took the muzzle and manacles _off_ the prisoner, which means the prisoner is being released.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Dean shoots the man a taunting grin. “Why? You like ‘em quiet?”

He gets no confirmation one way or the other, barring an icy glare and being ignored. Better that way. He stares past the fishbowl the other guard is in, putting his stuff on the counter: clothes, wallet, jacket, knife, and _ring_. He slips it on, rubbing his thumb over the smooth surface, as if there's comfort to be found. Grabbing all of it, he moves quick and efficient, lest they change their damn mind, and changes.

Question now is whose custody they’re releasing him into. It’s probably too much to ask for Cas, ready with suitcases so they can elope.

Dean inhales to sigh, but instead holds his breath.

Mary steps into view, her face like marble.

*

“Do you have _any_ idea the damage you’ve done to the family?! Our reputation is everything in this line of work.”

Stiffly, Dean avoids looking at her, but it’s difficult as his mother is as in his face as she can get without trying to chew it off. He’s got his hands folded behind his back, feet planted wide, and just… takes the vitriol. Waves of frustration and disappointment wash over him. Sam is being kept out of this and Charlie isn’t actually family. His hunting crew doesn’t stand a chance to be involved, once Mary puts her foot down. Hell, after this, he's not sure the crew will hold. Ketch drove a chasm without realizing the fallout. Typical.

He’s alone. In his room and suddenly those rut locks on the outside make a different kind of sense. No phone, no computer, no guns or tools.

None of that means he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

“Our reputation is the only thing, you mean.”

Mary snarls. “I’m sick and tired of your impudence. Clearly I've been too lenient. You resisted my order once. You will not do so again.”

He looks into her eyes, finding precious little left of the mother she once was, before life sank its claws in her. Before they lost Dad. Grimacing, he tries to remind himself of what she lost, wondering if he’d fare so much better. Recent events suggest he wouldn't. That thought exercise loops straight back to why he can’t accept this. To who and what is at risk. His guilt is already churning wildly at having surrendered so easily. He should have fought back and made a run for it. The Winchester pack would have stepped up, Mary or no Mary.

His muscles tighten as he leans closer, teeth bared. “Do you even care what this is gonna do to Cas? To us?”

“What ‘us’? There’s no us for you. You’re alone. Naomi Novak will be out for blood.”

“You're the one who lied, Mom. I know it’s what humans do, but when you get caught…” He shrugs, allowing the smirk she loathes to bleed through, flashing his canines at her. “Why don’t you just let me and Cas leave? Walk off into the sunset. Solves both your issues in one go.”

She scoffs through a mean laugh, disbelief rippling through her body. “You don’t walk away from your family, Dean, especially not over a _Novak_.”

“He's a Winchester," he bites. "You made the mess. Fix it, so we can get back to normal.”

She smiles, but it's a cruel one. “I intend to. But you won’t like it.”

“What the hell do you mean?” He knows that look. Smells the conniving intent on her. “How much more do you wanna manipulate this situation, Mom? Just… It’s out. I fucked up, but all I did was protect Cas, because your plant couldn't behave and Cas' uncle is a dick. I had to protect him. Better than his family has ever done. Family don’t end with blood, right?”

“Oh, no, in this case, it _does_ ,” Mary snaps. “Bobby’s mantra does not apply to the likes of them. All they represent is access to resources. An alliance to prevent them from growing too powerful.”

“Is that why Naomi sent us to do her dirty work?”

Mary’s cheeks clench and he can hear her teeth grind, the remark successfully taking the wind out of her sails. She sniffs, nostrils flaring, and shakes her head curtly. “We pay a price for access. That’s how these arrangements work.”

“Yeah, and why can’t you just leave us out of it? Or better yet, ask yourself _why_ the Novak matriarch needs the fourth friggin’ tablet, which we didn’t even know about! What’s she gonna use it for?”

“Hopefully to take her lot back to heaven, so we’re done with them.”

He withholds the suspicion that they're trying to bring back Cas' father. Yet something in him snaps. “I don’t want them to go back! I want…”

“I don’t care what you want! I need them gone. If they destroy themselves in the process, all the better. And do you honestly think _he_ will want anything to do with you after this?”

“You’d be surprised,” he bites, but her words release a chilling fear in his chest.

“Keep deluding yourself. You’re not going anywhere near that boy and I’ll do what I can to limit the fallout on this.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever Naomi wants. We can fix whatever needs fixing after.”

“Maybe if you didn’t fucking break them in the first place!" Mary rolls her eyes, her attention shifting as if she's about to give up on him entirely. "We both know Naomi Novak is not just gonna let this one slide, even _if_ she gets her family back to heaven. Sure, Mom, that’ll go over real well.”

“Exactly.” She makes a dismissive gesture. “I should have had you collared as soon as you presented.”

The casual way she says it, so calm and devoid of feeling, leaves Dean stunned. He doesn’t stop her when she leaves the room and he’s left with nothing but his own stellar company, trying to figure out what comes next. Deep down, he can take a good guess. If he were anything like his Mom, he’d do the same, and at the same time, the fact that his instincts function like hers suggests he might be more like her than he’s willing to admit. Or wants to be.

“Fuck.”

He paces up and down the room a few times. There’s a lot of stuff he didn’t move. Things he once thought integral to who he was, to who he was expected to be. Turns out he never missed any of them and was happy to fill those gaps with all of Cas’ stuff. Fuck. He didn't know missing someone could hurt this much. With a frustrated groan, he falls backwards onto the mattress. It remembers him, but that’s about the only comfort he has. He presses the palms of his hands to his forehead, eyes closed, breathing slowly in an attempt at gathering the calm he’s going to need for the days ahead.

Figure out a plan, because a lot of people have been saying a lot of things and Dean is convinced he’s missing something. That’s why he bought himself time. He just hadn’t expected to be cut off from each and every one of his allies, including his own brother.


End file.
